


Hard Candy

by spideywhiteys



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 90's references, Actually continued trauma but, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bi Peter Parker, Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Demonic Possession, Endgame Matt/Wade/Peter, F/F, F/M, Ghosts, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Jewish Peter Parker, Like Ridiculously Slow, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Murder, Paranormal, Peter Parker has PTSD, Peter Parker is a Mess, Queer Themes, Reincarnation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, This is going to be long and sad, Vampires, Werewolves, america hates poor people and peter is mad about it, as confirmed in sm/dp, at least not the powers you expect, he is also very tired, just very far down the road oop, peter ben kaine and teresa grow up together as siblings because i said so, peter never catches a break, romance is a subplot but definitely heavy down the road, souls have colors, switching between timelines, the non-con isn't explicit it's bc of skip, these tags are all over the place but i swear it'll make sense, think 100k in and they haven't even met yet lmao, this is literally a huge ghost au based on the fact that peter's soul is canonically pure, this is very much character development driven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 116,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22047901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideywhiteys/pseuds/spideywhiteys
Summary: The soul of a child is powerful, untouched and coveted. With age it darkens, stained with poor habits, mistakes and sins. Peter Parker came into the world like every other pure soul; naked, bloody and screaming his lungs out. Except no action of his ever taints the core of him and that permanent, unwanted purity comes with an equally unwanted gift. The gift of sight. Every person he lays eyes on is laid bare before him, their soul an open book.Unfortunately, no one ever said those souls had to belong to the living.ORPeter Parker sees the souls of the dead and living, picks up an assortment of human and decidedly non-human friends, and tries to navigate the traumatic disaster that is his life. Romance is the last thing on his mind, especially with the ghost of his dead girlfriend tethered to his soul, but no one thought to tell that to the resident suave Exorcist or motor-mouth Demon Hunter.
Relationships: Betty Brant/Flash Thompson, Felicia Hardy/Mary Jane Watson, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Flash Thompson, James “Bucky” Barnes & Peter Parker, Kaine (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Ben Reilly, Liz Allan/Harry Osborn, Logan (X-Men) & Flash Thompson, Matt Murdock/Peter Parker, Matt Murdock/Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Matt Murdock/Wade Wilson, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson, Peter Parker & Peter Quill, Peter Parker/Gwen Stacy (past), Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Teresa Parker & Flash Thompson
Comments: 126
Kudos: 231





	1. grape juice stains

**Author's Note:**

> this is both a dissection of peter's character development from childhood to modern day, and an excuse to expand upon the single moment we got in spider-man/deadpool where (spoiler alert!) wade commented on peter's near-spotless soul. i love supernatural/paranormal elements and couldn't resist building an entire au around it! i'll hopefully be posting once a week, as i already have 10 chapters finished right now.

_"Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe._ " 

\- Anne Brontë

* * *

_MARCH, 2016_

The room is two degrees too warm and his butt sinks a little too much into the plush couch. He hates it, but he sits in the same spot without fail every time. It’s become a habit now. It’s _his_ seat. He could try sitting in the leather armchair about two paces to the left of the couch, but he doesn’t like the way leather squeaks under his weight and the arms of it are worn and frayed. Thinking about putting his arms on those worn spots makes him feel a little ill. Who knows what kind of energy has seeped into the tattered fabric? A million, million sessions worth of depraved or suicidal souls complaining about their woes and scratching indents into that stupid leather seat.

“How’s your week been?”

She asks him that every session without fail, always reaching, prodding for information — for the boundary he’s set, the little line in imaginary sand. Always gentle, never pushing him for more. She doesn’t try to pick him apart or scrape at wounds only just scabbing over. It’s why he chose her as his therapist; well, it’s one reason. 

The other would be her soul. It’s a good soul, all things considered. Light gray and bright. She’s a good person, diligent and actually eager to help. He’s seen souls much lighter and brighter, but they weren’t therapists. Mostly children, if he’s honest.

“Alright,” he replies, distracted by the taste of artificial grape on his tongue. He always takes one of the tacky candies on the receptionist desk before coming in. He doesn’t even like grape that much — when it’s not in juice form. His back teeth clack together, sticky with hard candy remnants. “Had dinner with my Aunt on Wednesday. Saw Harry just yesterday.”

She smiles at him, brown eyes warm and crinkly at the corners. They’re nice eyes, ones that match her soul. Peter likes people like that — the ones who don’t try to hide who they are. Peter wonders if she knows about the strand of brown hair that’s escaped her bun.

“That’s wonderful.” Doctor Jennifer Dawson is the name on the little plaque atop her desk, but Peter has taken to just calling her _Doc_. 

What’s interesting is that she actually sounds happy for him. Which — yeah, he can see why. He’s been seeing her for a long, long time now so she’s probably invested or something. And….a lot of shit happened last year. Him going out with people twice in a week is an improvement on his meager social life. Peter has never had a lot of friends, even before the most recent accident. He’s weird, bitter, and has a lot of issues — and it’s possible all of them affect his sense of humor. Which, by the way, ranges from _dry as the Sahara_ to _stereotypical_ _manic depressed millennial on tumblr._ He jokes about death and dying too much, far more than can possibly be healthy. 

Though, if there’s anyone who can get away with it, it should be him. He can, after all, see the dead. Or more accurately, he can see souls. Living or dead. For as long as he can remember, every person he’s come across has emitted a light from their core, ranging from the darkest of blacks to the lightest of whites. Sometimes they can be tinted with color, dashed with it, or cracked and twisted like a kaleidoscope. Children always have white souls — the purest form. Most adults fall in the gray area, darkened by misdeeds and bad habits or shitty personality traits. ( Yeah, being an asshole can reflect on your soul. ) 

In his life, Peter has come to realize that black souls are few and far between, which is a goddamn mercy, but somehow he always seem to attract them to his person like flies to honey. They’re sick, twisted individuals, usually psychopaths or pedophiles. The lowest of humanity, the kind you see in shitty horror movies or read about in the paper but have a hard time believing they could ever exist in reality.

Peter, to his eternal despair, attracts more than just nasty, disease-carrying flies passing as human. No, he’s a beacon in the dark, gray pit of humanity — a pure white soul. Not uncommon, _when you’re a child._ There is not a single person past the age of 12 with a soul as untouched as the fucking snow, aside from lucky Mr. Peter Benjamin Parker. He doesn’t know why, or how, because his mind is a shit hole and he’s not even close to a saint — but he also doesn’t know why he can see souls, monsters that go bump in the night, and demons. Yeah, demons. The rats that follow the flies to the honey. 

A pure-souled adult is the rarest of rare. His shitty apartment in Brooklyn is covered in so many protective wards that demons would have an easier time breaking into the goddamn Vatican.

The taste of grape is fading now. He’ll end up grabbing another one on his way out. 

“Maybe I’ll give Flash a call.” He says, studiously staring at the stupid frayed arm of the leather seat. She should get a new one, Peter might sit there if the arms were whole and the leather didn’t squeak. He taps long, scarred fingers against a jean-clad knee. His legs are folded close to the couch and his body, limbs a little too long and coffee table a little too close. He doesn’t ever ask her to move it forward, he likes the protective energy being wound together gives him. That, he thinks, is probably another issue he has that led him here, seeing a therapist every week. 

“To make more plans?” She inquires, curious but not — not _expectant._ She’s right not to be. 

“No,” he brushes his tongue over his front teeth and licks at his chapped top lip. It feels achy and he knows it’s starting to redden. He hasn’t been drinking enough water lately. Three days ago he ran out of water bottles and has yet to go to the grocery store down the street to buy more. He’d drink the tap water, but it tastes like iron and feels like blood in his mouth. He’s been drinking orange juice at odd hours for three days straight. 

“Just to see how he’s doing. Um, he’s still settling in.” 

Doc nods, the strand of hair that’s Houdini-ed it’s way out of her bun bobs with the motion. He eyes it for a second, thinks about saying something, and then promptly decides to ignore it. 

She continues, “And how do you feel about him moving back from Philadelphia?”

They’d talked a little about this last session, so what she really wants to know is how his feelings have developed over the week. The short answer is they haven’t. Peter and Flash have what’s called a _rocky relationship,_ to put it in layman's terms. Vastly improved since their childhoods, of course, but there’s always something they can argue about.

“Excited,” is what he says, but it’s an exaggeration. He’s happy, certainly, but the feeling is dulled. His capacity for emotion has been nothing but static recently, like an old TV with a broken antenna. He can’t find the remote anymore. “I’m glad to have him back. I had a feelin’ Philly just wasn’t for him.”

He doesn’t say that he was jealous, for a time, that Flash had the guts to pack up and leave; he managed to get away from the bustle and weight of New York City, he’d freed himself from the cage the city had become. But of course, one doesn’t just _escape_ from New York’s clutches so easily. It’s a beacon for the unnatural, a black hole pulling anyone and anything into its inky clutches. 

Peter wishes he could leave, sometimes. But the fact is — it doesn’t matter where he is or where he goes. Sure, New York is rife with pain and bad memories and far too many souls crammed in one area, but it’s all he’s ever known. There’s comfort in his discomfort. Or maybe that’s the depression talking. He clenches his jaw, pressing his molars together to feel for any candy left behind. His teeth don’t stick together when he relaxes, and he’s disappointed.

He doesn’t say that Flash figured it out too. Change of scenery didn’t end the problem — because the problem was everywhere, and it was _them_. Flash just took longer to figure it out, stuck in denial. So yes, Flash is coming back to New York, because if he’s going to suffer no matter where he is, he might as well suffer while in close proximity to people he tolerates having around. 

Maybe they have more in common than Peter realizes. ( Or wants to admit. )

When Peter leaves Doc’s office he takes a grape hard candy from the receptionist’s desk and schedules his next appointment for two weeks in the future instead of one. He steps out of the office and rides the elevator down, even though he’s only on the second floor. He does it only because he wants a moment to himself, a moment to stick out his tongue and go crossed-eyed looking at it without tripping and falling down stairs. He crinkles the grape candy wrapper between his thumb and forefinger.

Like he thought, his tongue is purple; stained with artificial grape. His teeth stick.

She’s waiting for him in the car as she always does. Every Saturday at 3pm, never following him into the building. Her soul is as familiar as his own, bright and tinted with rose-gold. He sees the sun’s rays highlighting her blond locks and shimmering through her translucent frame. 

He opens the driver door and ignores the fact that she’d had no reflection in the side-view mirror. She never does. ( Not anymore. )

She doesn’t ask him about how it went, because that’s a stupid and invasive question to ask a person having private sessions with a therapist and Gwen Stacy is anything but stupid. Instead, she says, “You don’t even like grape.”

Like the adult he is, Peter throws the wrapper at her and sticks out his purple tongue. The plastic falls through her form and lands on the seat. Gwen sniffs like she’s been gravely offended and sticks a hand through her lap to knock the wrapper off the seat and onto the car floor. It’s an odd thing to watch, but Peter has dealt with Odd his whole life. 

“Real mature, Parker.”

“Hm,” he hums, starting the car. He’s the epitome of adulthood. He’s so good at adulting he — he still has to go grocery shopping, now that he thinks about it. 

“We’re already out.” Gwen reminds him, eyeing the way his knuckles turn white against the steering wheel. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and buy some _water_.”

“Ugh.” He reverses out of the parking space and leaves the plaza. 

Gwen raises an immaculate eyebrow, ruby red lips pursed. “You really wanna get into this again? Drive.” 

Any sympathy she may have had for him is long gone after three days of his complaining. About water. Ok, maybe he can see why she’s a little fed up with his reluctance to go outside. It’s not even his fault! Not really — it’s the souls. They’re terribly, _distractingly_ bright, and sometimes when he’s not paying attention he accidentally talks to the dead, which earns some _looks_. Mostly people just skirt around him like they do with crazies on the train. No one really says much about it, because this is New York and New Yorkers are bred for hardier stuff than a messy guy holding a conversation with an invisible ‘ghost’.

It sounds stupid, being afraid to go grocery shopping. But quite honestly, this whole seeing souls thing has destroyed his life. It’s harder when you’re a kid, not knowing that what you can do isn’t natural -- or being told what you’re seeing isn’t real; it’s an imaginary friend, you’re crazy, _hey maybe you should see a doctor._ It’s less funny the hundredth time, becomes less of a thing to shrug off and more of a thing to shy away from. It’s funny, really, that at this point in life he prefers the dead to the living. The dead don’t make fun of or shun him for his ‘talent’, they don’t shove him in lockers or tell him he’s the devil’s child. ( Yeah, that’s happened a few times. ) That’s not to say that all people are awful, even if it’s to Peter’s understanding that they mostly fall under that adjective. He has friends, some family. Has Gwen. 

He glances at her as he drives down the familiar, crowded streets of New York. Grudgingly, he takes the turn towards the local grocery store and ignores her look of triumph. The things he does for her….how dare she force him to take care of himself! Doesn’t she realize she’s breaking his carefully crafted downward spiral?

“Your sister’s calling.” she says suddenly, and Peter glances down at his phone ringing silently in the cupholder before returning his attention to the road. “You should really get in the habit of--”

“Turning the alarm on, yeah.” He finishes, with the air of someone who’s heard this particular prompting one too many times. He always means to, but never does. She always reminds him, and he always forgets. It’s a deadly cycle.

Without looking away from the road -- he’s just gotten his license, there’s no way he’s willing to make any mistakes so early on in his driving career -- he fumbles for his phone, thumb swiping at the little green button to accept the call. It’s barely at his ear when he hears his sister’s voice through the speaker, tinny and cracking.

“Your service is shit,” He informs her dutifully, bulldozing over whatever she’d been trying to say. 

Teresa scoffs, a sharp noise in his ear that makes him wince. “Thanks, Pete. It’s ‘cause I’m in Paris. Having a great time, how are you?” Her tone is mocking and over-sweet.

“Is this because I haven’t called?” he hedges, squinting his eyes even though she’s not there to see. 

“It’s because you haven’t called.” She confirms, still angry in the way Peter has only known Parker women to sound. 

Peter flicks the turn signal and spins the steering wheel, entering the grocery store parking lot. A finger taps against the crappy faux-leather wheel, teeth biting at the inside of his cheek. The faint trace of artificial grape still clings stubbornly to his tongue. His sister travels a lot. She’s got a cushy job with the government, doing god-knows-what and making more money than Peter can probably handle knowing. He’s proud of her, really. She made something of her life -- pushed past the shit hand the Parker family had been dealt. The youngest, but probably the most successful of the Parker siblings. Teresa always says Peter has all the time and ability to make a life for himself, but he can’t see it happening. No, he’s stuck with his crappy, warded apartment in the middle of Brooklyn with its beautiful view of the neighboring building’s brick exterior.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he kinda is, because she’s his little sister and he loves her. “I’ve been...busy.”

She laughs, “Doing what? Brooding? Visiting that hot exorcist friend of yours?”

Peter groans, pulling into a parking space with the sounds of Teresa and Gwen’s mixed amusement ringing in his ears. His head _thunks_ against the seat rest and he studiously ignores the look Gwen is shooting him, waggling eyebrows and all.

“No,” he sighs, unbuckling his seatbelt with the weariness of a man thrice his age. “I haven’t seen Matt recently.”

Matthew Michael Murdock, the picture-perfect pastor - and wow, that was a mouthful - who moonlighted as an exorcist. Except Peter knows _Father Murdock_ is anything but ‘perfect’. The man, despite being an esteemed member of the church, gets about as much action as a part-time porn star. There’s also the illegal exorcism thing, but seeing as he does more good than bad with that whole shtick, Peter’s pretty sure the Big Man ( if he exists ) will give Matt a pass. Hopefully. The man has been _Angel Touched_ , after all. Peter can see it in the vibrant streaks of crimson flickering about Matt’s ears, nose and chest. He’s blind, but does not need eyes to see -- and he’s always known something was _off_ about Peter. They’d found each other by chance, and their friendship had grown from the kind of situation Peter really didn’t want to think about it right now.

“But you think he’s hot, right?” Teresa goads, tone shaping into something dreadfully familiar even over the poor phone reception. He feels the weight of Gwen’s gaze -- or maybe not, she’s probably not even looking at him; but it’s her presence. He swallows, throat feeling dry with emotions he can’t explain, emotions he doesn’t _want_ to explain. Instead he tucks them away carefully under a veneer of sarcasm. 

“I only have one exorcist friend, so you can’t twist my words here, T.” The air is chilled when he steps out of the car, immediately making him wish he was home already. God, he hates how frigid the temperatures get in the city, where everything is icy steel and concrete. From the car to the grocery store’s curb is a trek. He counts sixty-eight strides, Teresa babbling in his ear about Paris, informing him of all she’s been up to since he’s too ‘inside his own head’ to think about his poor younger sister and call her on his own time. ( Her words, not his -- though she’s not wrong, which bothers him more than he realizes. )

“Peter,” she sighs, finally stopping her tirade about Parisian cuisine. By now he’s perusing the frozen food aisle, distracted by a squeaky wheel on the grocery cart he’s chosen. He wonders if it would look odd to swap them out now.

“Hm?” he hums, staring intently at the plethora of packaged, frozen meals behind glass doors. Cooking isn’t hard. If he really tried he’d probably even be good at it, since it’s basically just chemistry and following recipes. He’s good at science -- he has the ability to follow careful direction… for work, not for life. _Unfortunately_. But buying multiple ingredients is far too expensive these days, especially for a down-on-his-luck guy like him, who barely scrapes up enough for rent most months. He survives however he can, and if that means buying frozen dinner and skimping on meals some nights -- and ignoring the fact that his sister puts money in his account when she thinks he doesn’t notice, even though it burns his pride -- than so be it.

She pauses a moment and all he can hear is the tinny static of a long-distance call. “You haven’t talked to Kaine yet, have you.”

Now it’s him who pauses, and the absence of the squeaky wheel sound is somehow louder than its presence. At his side, Gwen’s eyes find his and he looks at her for what feels like forever. She looks a little sad, a little exasperated. It’s pity and sympathy for him, he realizes. Ah, she always had been the kinder one between them. ( Still is. )

“Peter,” she sighs at his silence, no amount of distance between them hiding her worry. “I know I’m not around much anymore, but I still want to keep in touch. You’re my family, after all. I hate that I need to hear about you _and_ him from Ben. Neither of you call, neither of you even get out -- Peter, please. He’s your brother. What happened was awful and I’m sorry, I’m always going to be sorry about it, but you can’t let it break you apart like this.”

“Ben’s been telling you a lot, huh?” It sounds far more bitter than he meant it to, considering it’s not her he’s mad at. She just doesn’t realize -- she hadn’t _been_ there. How could she understand the depth of what had happened? He’s not mad at anyone but himself. “It’s not my decision. He hates me, he doesn’t want to see me -- he moved across the country, T. What could I possibly do? Why does it have to be me who does something to begin with?”

“Because, Peter,” she murmurs, voice low enough that he could pretend he doesn’t hear. “You’re his big brother, and that’s never gonna change.”

She’s right, she always is when it comes to them. The three Parker brothers had always been a bit too hard-headed, a bit too _angry_ \-- prone to bouts of biting cruelty and general assholery. Teresa softened their edges, brought out the kinder bits they had buried deep down. Kaine may be bigger than Peter, but Peter is the oldest. He rests his elbows on the grocery cart handlebar, free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. _Tired_ is a feeling Peter is intimately familiar with, but now his exhaustion feels like a physical weight in his chest. 

“I know,” he finally says. “Just give me a little more time.”

Gwen frowns at him, a small thing that’s barely noticeable. Teresa sighs over the phone. It’s not the answer either woman is looking for, but it’s all they’re going to get at this point in time. Peter knows he can’t let his relationship with Kaine deteriorate any more than it already has, he doesn’t _want_ it too. It’s courage he’s lacking. The courage to pick up the damn phone and call his estranged sibling. Even if his youngest brother has changed his number, Peter knows Ben and Teresa likely have the new one. ( There’s been many nights these past few months where he’s stared at Kaine’s contact information on his phone, eyes glued to the _call_ button but never finding the will to press it. )

“Ok, Peter.” Teresa doesn’t sound happy but she’s said her piece and likely won’t push anymore. “I have to go now. Remember to call me sometime, will ya?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he straightens up, pushing his cart and resuming his trek. There’s still water to buy. “I will. I swear.”

“Give Ben a call too?”

“Yeah, alright.” Ben he can call without feeling soul-crushing guilt. It’s more of a _stabbing_ sort of guilt, painful but tolerable. Their relationship had always been better -- him and Kaine always found ways to argue while Ben and Teresa played mediator. 

There’s a pause, then, “Say hi to Gwen for me.”

His lips quirk up a bit and onlookers be damned, he meets Gwen’s eyes and relays the message. “T says hi.”

Gwen looks delighted. “Tell her I said not to worry, I’ll make sure you hold up your end of the bargain—and that I’m starting to question the whole _genius_ thing.”

“Gwen says she’ll make sure I follow through. And that I’m probably an idiot.” he laughs, half-sure Teresa is the blonde’s favorite Parker and not even mad about it.

“She spends all her time with you,” Teresa muses, “so she’s probably right, being a Peter Expert and all.” 

“Shut up, I’m telling Matt you think he’s hot.” he snipes, voice high and whiny the way a kid about to tattle to their mom is.

“PETER--” The phone audio cracks with the sudden increase in volume. He hangs up, snickering. It doesn’t matter how old they get, he’s never gonna pass up a chance to be the teasing older sibling.

He gets the water.

* * *

Peter lives in a quaint, shit-hole of an apartment in Brooklyn. One bedroom, one bathroom, and an open kitchen-slash-living room. Small, slightly shoddy and incredibly drafty -- but home. Tenants were allowed to paint the walls as they wished, so Peter had scrawled sigils and wards all across his little home. He’d mixed salt into paint and put lines across the spans of all doorways and windowsills. Then even _more_ protection wards. It could be considered overkill… if it were anyone else. Last year’s incident only reaffirmed his belief that all this protection was worth it. He needed _somewhere_ to just... be _safe._ Home was the ideal option, so he’d hankered down and done his research -- even got Matt over to help, and tips from Johnny ( and the rest of the quartet ) to help with keeping demons out. The bad boys he had on his walls made it so Johnny and his family couldn’t even get twenty feet _near_ Peter’s door, and they were only _half-demons_.

 _We’re called_ Cambion _, Peter,_ the memory of Johnny’s annoying voice reminds him. Whatever, they were still thousand year old demons who held family trivia nights and collectively cried over funny cat videos.

As tricked out as his apartment is -- Gwen can still get in. No other spirit can. No demon, vampire, werewolf or any other pesky supernatural creature. The reason behind this is not an exact science, though Matthew had admitted he believed it had something to do with the fact that Peter had, for all intents and purposes, somehow tethered Gwen’s soul to his own. Where he went, so did she, across the whole plane of existence. She crosses the threshold into Peter’s apartment just as easily as he does. 

Unfortunately, she can’t help with his groceries. Instead, she flounces on the couch and watches as he puts them away -- only after making him turn the TV on for her. It’s a typical routine. There _are_ some days she’s able to turn the TV on herself, with her ghosty electricity powers or whatever. Today isn’t one of them.

He puts the groceries away. The heating sucks in here, another reason the place was so _affordable_. There’s a dingy metal grate heater that was once painted white but now looks more brown with rust, chips of old paint flaking off at random intervals or whenever he brushes against it accidentally. It rattles up a storm whenever on, and the heat it puts out is rather mediocre. _Lukewarm_ , if anything. Not the greatest for New York winters. He listens to the eerie death rattle of his poor, poor heater as he folds up the now empty grocery bags and stuffs them under his sink. It’s a noise that would have terrified him as a child, when he was still coming into his abilities. The monsters under _his_ bed had been real after all. 

It doesn’t bother him much anymore. This place is safe, and the world is filled with things far more horrifying than the sound of banging metal. Still, perhaps he should save up to get it fixed. It really is too cold in here. Gwen doesn’t really help either, generating cold spots when she hovers around one area for too long. Blankets are a man’s best friend in this household.

“I’m cold.” he announces, because a Peter that doesn’t complain doesn’t exist.

From the couch Gwen sighs, not pulling her eyes away from what looks like the Great British Baking Show. “Put on a sweater.” Is what she says, like every other time he complains about the temperature.

“I’m wearing a sweater!” He retorts, even as he trudges across the wood floors to his room to do just that. Through his socks he can feel the bite of icy cold, the flooring always sucking up any morsel of heat it came across. Heater aside, he should invest in _slippers_. Or maybe just steal a pair of Johnny’s. The half-demon certainly has enough to spare. Then again… there is the possibility of Johnny’s _foot stink_ tainting those hypothetical slippers.

The sweater he chooses to layer over what he’s already wearing is faded red and three sizes too big. It’s absurdly comfortable, worn and slightly fraying at the wrists. He’s pretty sure it used to be Flash’s. ‘Used to be’, not because Flash gave it to Peter, but because he couldn’t get into Peter’s apartment anymore to retrieve it. He’ll get it back eventually, once Peter collects enough of the other man’s hoodies to lug over like a college kid coming back home with laundry; especially since Flash is now back in New York. Peter loves the guy, but he isn’t gonna go all the way to Philly to drop off stolen clothes.

“Peter!” Gwen calls, and the sounds of British people baking becomes quiet. _Huh_ , he thinks. _Maybe she_ could _mess with the remote today._ That would mean she made him turn it on for her anyway -- which, yeah. He can see her doing that.

“Yeah?” he replies, marginally warmer now. Socked feet slide across the wood floors from his room into the other. If there’s one thing he loves about these heat-sucking floors, it’s that they let him do the _sock thing_. He’s 28, let him live a little.

“You’re going to have to see Flash a little sooner than you thought.” Her eyes are on the barely held up calendar pinned on the wall beside the TV. It’s one of those animal planet ones. March is a group of meerkats. 

He’s moving forward to squint at the calendar even as he asks, “What do you mean?” But she doesn’t have to answer, because he already sees what the problem is. It’s a full moon tomorrow. 

Ok, listen. It’s not like he, say, _forgot_. The full moon is a time during which the layers between worlds become thin. People see things, people disappear. People turn into giant wolf-man hybrids.

“He was fine in Philly.” he grumbles. As far as they know, no werewolf attacks had occurred during Flash’s stay. The man is _fine_ , he’d lived with his ‘issue’ for a little over a decade now. It really isn’t any of Peter’s business. Really. Friendship aside, Flash doesn’t _need_ him there. 

Gwen, of course, senses weakness the way sharks scent blood. “He had Logan.”

Peter thinks of the short, scary man with a heart like melted chocolate. He thinks of words like ‘pack’ and ‘life-bonds’. “He _still_ has Logan.”

“Don’t even try to argue,” she says, sending him a haughty look, like she knows she’s already going to get her way. “You’re going.”

“Eurhg,” a sound leaves him, and he shoots her a glare. “Fine.” He exclaims, hands dancing with movement to emphasize his displeasure. Eventually he settles on crossing them and giving her a petulant look, which she expertly ignores in favor of returning her attention to the TV. The volume starts to rise again.

“Call Harry.” She reminds him.

“I know,” he sighs, “Trust me, I know.” It’s only been a few months, his memory isn’t _that_ bad. He moves to the kitchen, where there’s snacks and less British noise. 

Harry answers on the first ring. Peter’s pretty sure the man was just _waiting_ for a call. Is he that predictable? Maybe. Or perhaps Harry just knows Peter better than he thinks.

“Coming over tonight, Pete?” No greeting, straight to the point.

Peter grunts, one hand curled around his fridge door as he stares at its contents. He’s just been shopping, he _knows_ what’s in there, but he still can’t seem to decide. “Should I?”

“I’ll send a car over.” Is the reply, Harry’s tone amused even through the phone. Peter bets he’s doing that fond half-smile thing. Ugh. He’s so disgustingly soft for his friends.

“You don’t have to.” It’s barely an argument, Harry always gets his way. There’s a short bout of laughter in Peter’s ear.

“And let you suffer in that dinosaur you call a car? It’ll be there at 8.”

“You think you’re cute, huh?” Peter settles on making a sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly never steered him wrong. He tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear to grab all the fundamental PB&J-making materials. 

There’s a put-upon sigh, “Well, if you just let me buy you--”

“I don’t need a new car, Har’.” Peter interrupts, sniffing dramatically. “It works _fine._ ”

“For now,” Harry allows, and Peter knows this discussion isn’t over, just paused. He could complain about it (has, on many occasions), but Peter, who will never, ever admit it, likes the mother-hen nature his friend exudes. 

* * *

_OCTOBER, 1992_

When he was a child, he’d had to learn the hard way that he and his siblings were different. Babies exist in a state of purity and they believe what is before their eyes as truth, because in the beginning they are untainted by the limitations of society and scientific thought. It was as you aged and left behind ‘childish’ perceptions that your purity became tainted, closing the door between worlds. How was he to know what was considered real and what wasn’t? He waved at ghosts, played games with children no one else could see, accepted the creatures walking around with horns, scales, fangs - because no one cringed away from them, no one taught him to be afraid. No one over the age of twelve _saw_ them. But how was he to know?

There’s no memory of Kaine being born, their ages too close, but Peter remembers Teresa coming home. She’d been so very _pink._ The blanket she’d been swaddled in was a shade of light rose, five times less vibrant than the color on her fat baby cheeks. The blanket had confused him at first, because Peter had been accustomed to seeing people glowing white or gray - Ben aside, who was colored a pretty gradient of royal purple to lilac. Her eyes were deep blue, like every infant’s start as, and her little head had only the smallest amount of reddish fluff on top; she was also, undoubtedly, glowing in a shade of pink that closely resembled her blanket, hence his initial confusion. It was pretty. Peter thought it suited her. 

It still does, even more so now that her eyes have settled into a hazel-green and her wispy hair has lengthened around her ears. Sometimes it’s a bit much when their mother dresses her up in big pink dresses.

He’s lucky to have siblings who can see the odd creatures too. It’s not until he’s five years old that he discovers just how lucky he’s been, toeing the line between worlds. Slowly, gently, his worldview expands. He reads, watches, learns. _Talks._ Or tries to. It very quickly becomes obvious that his parents don’t believe him when he talks about the horned man flying over their house. They don’t believe him when he tells them about the poor old lady with the bullet hole in her forehead who lives down the street -- and did they know how she survived that? No, they didn’t, and they told him to stop watching scary TV and took his books away. _But he’s so lucky_. Five whole years, pouring out the light of an innocent child; silk white warmth, untainted, unpressed. There’s a reason people always say children are more sensitive to the paranormal, a _reason_ why ghosts and demons contact kids easier than adults. The young have the purest souls, blurring the lines between the three planes of existence. They see things, things people write off as wild, childish imagination, forgetting their own experiences in the wake of adulthood, youthful memories like faded photographs. He just happens to see better than most. 

The only light in the room comes from his Power Rangers night-light and the sliver of space beneath his door. The muffled sounds of his parents talking is heard, low enough that he could ignore it and fall asleep did he not feel so terrified. Body tense as a bow-string, he can’t bring himself to move a muscle. All he can do is stare into the dark, fingers holding his bed sheets with a white-knuckled grip, tight enough that they begin to ache with the strain. Even then, he does not relax. 

Inhale. Exhale. Breath sounds, rattling like an old door — or Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s heating grate, the one they always tell him not to touch, lest he burn himself. Peter listened, Kaine didn’t. His little brother had run crying to their mom after pressing a pudgy hand to the rusted metal, skin red and flaming like a sunburn. There’d been a lot of yelling that day, and Peter had gotten in trouble because _he was the big brother and he needed to look out for his younger siblings._ Stupid Kaine.

It’s not his breath. It’s not Ben’s either, his twin presumably slumbering away on his own bed on the opposite end of the room. No, Peter peers at the shape of his brother’s form with wide, terrified eyes because the breathing comes from _below_. It rattles his bed with every exhale, gentle but noticeable. This is the sixth night in a row. The first time, he’d screamed bloody murder for his mom and dad, claiming there was a _monster under his bed, couldn’t they see?_

The floor had been icy cold under his socked feet as he’d stood beside them, lights on while they peered under his bed. They’d made a show of checking, sharing little smiles like it was a big joke, pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair. Peter didn’t understand. How could they act so nonchalant? How could they act like nothing was there? He’d stood there, watching as they’d knelt down, face to face with a monster, only to turn to him and say, _See, Peter? There’s nothing there._

The monster had rows of teeth, more than Peter had ever seen — even more than his well-loved Animals of the World book said _sharks_ had. Peter already found sharks incredibly scary, so whatever this monster was sent him even beyond that, into a type of fear that left him wide awake and paranoid. Inky, shadow-like skin made it impossible to distinguish between the dark under his bed and its body. Sheer blackness, cavernous and indistinguishable. Putrid yellow gaze peers back, just as unnaturally shiny as the glittering rows of jagged teeth. Peter had never seen a creature such as that before, but he knew without a doubt that it was _bad_.

It’s there now, breathing, taking joy in the way his small body trembles with the force of his terror. Hazel eyes dart around the dimness of his and Ben’s room, tracing every deep shadow and shapeless form. Before now, he hadn’t realized the dangers those creatures held. Starry-eyed wonder had consumed him, left him blinded by the frequency of odd beings he’d been exposed to, just as naturally as the average person. 

His eyes trail back to his slumbering brother, only from him to startle and choke back a sound when he meets a matching hazel gaze. Between the twins there are very few differences; their features identical, personalities similar and interests coincidentally the same. Ben’s hair is perhaps a shade lighter, Peter might have a cowlick. And now they sport matching expressions of terror, pallid skin and whites of eyes flashing in the dark, droplets of sweat beading on clammy foreheads. They sit in silence for another moment, barely able to make out the other.

Abruptly, Ben sits up. The breathing under Peter’s bed stops. Every muscle in his body tenses, mouth agape but unable to conjure any sound. He wants to tell Ben to lay back down, go back to sleep -- forget about the monster. (Close your eyes, if you can’t see it, it can’t see you.) But he’s too scared, unable to even move. His brother is far braver. 

Ben shifts, blankets shoved off his lap hastily. There’s a moment where everything freezes and all Peter can hear is the sound of their breathing and the buzz of nothingness. Then his brother flees from the safety of his bed, feet thudding harshly against the floorboards as he sprints for the door. Peter’s bed shudders and he lets out a shriek, just as Ben jerks before reaching the door and tumbles to the ground. His legs kick frantically, fingernails digging into the floor as he screams bloody murder. His body jerks back a few inches.

“Ben!” Before he realizes what he’s doing, Peter leaps from his bed. There’s a blackness curled around Ben’s leg, see-through and shifting like smoke. Ben kicks out his leg again and lets out another scream.

“Stop it!” Peter screams too, darting forward to thrust a fist through the smoke. His heart beats fast and loud, hears ringing with the sound of it, like a thousand horses galloping in one of those old movies. “Let him go!” 

“Peter!” Ben yells, and this time it’s one of pain. The inky smoke writhes and thickens, pushing out to jab at Peter. Jerking back reflexively, he stumbles and lands on his butt. The new rush of fear is accompanied by determination, a powerful combination. (Bravery.) 

“I said--” Peter pushes himself forward and, unseen by all, hazel eyes flash molten gold, “LET HIM GO!”

The smoke stutters and pulses like a living creature, writhing as though it’s succumb to seizures. One, two -- it expands outward jerkily before _pop!_ The force blows Ben almost to the very door he’d been running to and shoves Peter all the way to his bed. The whole thing had barely lasted a minute. Ben’s hands cradle his left ankle, chest heaving as he sobs. Peter barely manages to crawl to his feet when the door bursts open, nearly hitting his brother in the process.

“What’s going on? What happened?” It’s their parents, the hall light illuminating them from behind. The questions come from their mother, who shoves past their father to crouch beside Ben.

“It hurts, it hurts!” he wails, and Peter sees red spilling from under Ben’s fingers now that their room is lit.

“Oh, let me see, let me see--” Mom urges, voice soft against Ben’s harsh cries. The sound of feet approaching -- Kaine peers into their room, awakened by the noise. 

“Back to bed--” Their father urges, his voice sharper than Peter has ever heard it. Kaine’s nose scrunches, a tell-tale sign of impending argument. 

“But dad! I don’t wanna! Tell me what happened! You can’t--”

They begin arguing, as expected. Kaine is the Parker child with the worst listening skills, and an attitude that has no business being as big as it is at his age. But Peter barely hears it. His ears are still ringing and his fingers tingle, buzzing like his leg does when he sits for too long in the wrong position while reading. All he can see is his mother peeling away Ben’s fingers from his leg, revealing four long, bleeding lines dug into the flesh of his ankle. 

From down the hall Teresa begins crying in her crib.

No one sleeps well that night.


	2. rug burns

“ _We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than from reality.”_

_-_ Seneca

* * *

Ben’s ankle is wrapped, stitches holding his flesh together. He doesn’t show up to school for two days, and they are the longest two days of Peter’s life. The monster hasn’t come back, but Peter still fears both it and what could possibly occur while his brother is home alone with their mother, who can’t explain the injury but doesn’t believe them when they tell her the truth. On the third day, their mom lets Ben go back to school. Peter holds his hand in the car and doesn’t let go until they have to sit down at their desks. Their classmates think it’s the coolest thing ever, approaching the world with rose-tinted eyes, childish minds not thinking of much else but the story. Peter hates it. 

It does get better when a few days have passed, Ben’s injury becoming old news. Instead they speak of the latest episode of Looney Tune’s aired on the recently established Cartoon Network. Peter finds no enjoyment in watching TV, preferring books and parks. Having a sibling his own age makes playtime much easier, but with Ben’s recent injury they’ve spent a majority of their afternoons indoors, placing colored blocks on top of each other and reciting mathematics as a game of mental endurance. Currently, there’s a thousand piece puzzle of the Starship Enterprise spread out before him and Ben, half complete in patches, individual pieces grouped by color at their sides.

“Peter!” Kaine pauses at the doorway of their room, cheeks puffy with baby fat and the beginning of a sulk. “Turn on the show!”

Peter shares a glance with Ben before sighing, “Mom said you can’t watch Law & Order anymore, K.”

“She’s no’ home.” The four year old argues.

Peter senses the beginning of a tantrum he has no desire to witness. It’s not that he particularly cares what Kaine watches. Law & Order is a good show, after all, though perhaps not one suited for their young eyes. But it’s _him_ who will face their mother’s wrath if Kaine gets caught. Mom is infinitely scarier than Kaine - though  _ scary _ isn’t exactly the word he would use anymore, not after what happened a few days ago.

He turns back to the puzzle. “Rules are rules, Kaine. Now, go bother Aunt May!” 

Kaine stomps his feet, agitated, “Peter! TV!”

“Just do it,” Ben sighs, clicking another piece in place. “He won’t stop kicking and screaming until you do, and it’ll probably be over by the time mom gets home.”

Peter gets to his feet and grips Kaine by the arm. “Fine,” he throws over his shoulder, “But if mom catches him you’re taking the blame this time.”

Ben makes a sound of agreement that Peter barely hears, likely already invested in the puzzle once more. Peter scowls down at Kaine, who scowls right back. His little brother is a pain, despite only being a little over a year younger. He acts more like a child than Peter and Ben ever do, prone to tantrums and bouts of impossible immaturity. At four years old, it's to be expected, but compared to the quiet genius of his older brothers, the chasm between them seems deceitfully large. Kaine is frequently mistaken as Peter and Ben’s triplet, being almost at their height and practically identical to the twins. His hair is two shades darker, and eyes the color of coffee beans -- while Peter and Ben’s lean on the edge of caramel. 

He is, as many older folks have pointed out, positively adorable. Peter likes to think they wouldn’t say such things if they knew how annoying his little brother really is.

“If mom asks, you did it yourself.” Peter mutters, sullen. He bangs the TV box three times like his dad does, and readjusts the antennae to remove the faint static. The familiar soundtrack of the crime show plays from the speakers, tinny. “You really should know how to by now.”

“Whatever. Go ‘way.” Kaine pulls himself up onto the couch, tiny body framed by cushions. He tugs an old quilt their parents have had since before Peter and Ben were born over himself, settling in.

“What, no  _ thank you _ ?” Peter snorts, rolls his eyes, and turns away. He hadn’t really expected one. On his way back he peers into the kitchen, observing his Aunt. Her dark hair is tied up, the phone pressed to her ear and fingers twirling in the cord. She pauses every once in a while to make faces at Teresa, who’s messing around with some Cheerios on her highchair. If it’s her friend Carmela, she’ll be talking for a while. Hopefully long enough for the whole episode get over and done with.

He makes his way up the stairs, one hand on the railing. They creak lightly beneath his feet, quiet enough to be unheard by his Aunt. There’s a carpet at the top of the stairs. It’s one of those long ones that extends the length of the hallway, worn by the frequent treading of feet. At each end, the carpet is lined by tassels. Usually, he never thinks about them, too used to their presence to ever acknowledge it. But this time…

_ Weird, _ he thinks, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. The tassels are cut, as though someone had run a knife over them right where they connected to the carpet. Not a single one is brushed out of place, like they should have been when he and Kaine trudged down the stairs just minutes ago. Peter glances behind him to the base of the staircase. He hears his Aunt’s laughter and the distant buzz of voices from the TV. 

“Ben?” he whispers, reluctant to draw his Aunt’s attention despite the situation. From his position at the beginning of the hall he can see that all the doors on this floor are shut. Even the one two doors down on the left. His room. His and Ben’s, which he’d left open. 

One step forward becomes two, socked feet warm against the old carpet. The house is old, but not excessively so. The floors don’t creak too much beneath his weight, just enough to make him feel even more paranoid. “Ben?”

The hall is silent. Peter keeps walking. The first door on his right is the bathroom, the door shut tight and the crack between it and the floor is pitch black despite the window that Peter knows is on the opposite wall within, which should be filling it with natural light. He’s halfway by it, moving impossibly slow in his fear, when he hears a knock. Every muscle in his little body freezes. From the corner of his eye he sees the bathroom doorknob gently twist. The door doesn’t open, but the handle keeps twisting. Back and forth, back and forth. The movement picks up speed until it’s rattling, jerking and squeaking like an unoiled hinge. The door trembles with the force of it, banging in its frame. Peter turns and runs, feet thudding against the carpet. 

Behind him he hears the bathroom door shudder violently, like a great weight had thrown itself against it. Again and again, then once more. He pulls at the door to his room, clammy hands white-knuckled around the knob. He twists and twists, hears the bathroom door twist and twist.

“Ben!” he yelps, fist raining down like thunder on the unmoving wood, even as the other hand scrambles to turn the unmoving handle. 

_ Knock. Knock. Knock. _

The squeaking behind him quiets, until the air is unnaturally still and echoing with the fading sound of three heavy thuds. Peter can feel the panic blossom in his chest, can feel his heart thrash like a bird in a cage. His ribs feel impossibly fragile in that moment, as though any harder and his heart would beat right out his chest, tearing through curved bones and lung tissue like paper mache. It becomes hard to breathe.

The knocks come again, each one bringing along a sense of foreboding. Peter’s throat seems to close, swelling and blocking the air he so desperately needs. Furiously, he resumes beating the bedroom door with his fist, gasping for what little breath he can obtain. 

“BEN! BEN!” He croaks, feeling his eyes burn with tears. They stream down his terror-flushed skin, leaving glimmering tracks. “Open the door! Ben!”

His gasps turn into choking, hands reflexively come up to grip his throat. A new kind of fear shoots through him, not for whatever is behind him, but for what seems to be happening to his body. The sound of his harsh, panicked sobs rings loud in his ears, yet he still hears the innocuous sound of a handle turning. 

The bedroom door opens.

Peter collapses to his knees, struggling for air.

“Peter?” Ben drops down in front of him, “Peter? What’s wrong? AUNT MAY! HELP!”

His vision goes blurry at the edges, black spots dancing in his view. A ringing begins to drown out all other sounds. 

“AUNT MAY!”

* * *

Peter has asthma. He goes home from the hospital with an inhaler. The dispenser feels clunky and odd in his hand, but the doctors said it would save his life. Peter thinks it might, if his problems were only a throat working against itself. Because they’re twins, identical at that, Ben has a chance of also developing asthma. It’s not guaranteed, however, and Peter hopes his brother never gets it. The experience was one he’d prefer to never repeat, or wish upon  _ anyone _ . Even Stevie Jacobs from class C, who steals pencils and pushes down girls on the playground.

When he tells his parents about the monster in the bathroom they don’t believe him. They say it was born of panic, an illusion he’d created while choking. But he knows it started before the asthma attack. He wonders how the monster got inside their home. It wasn’t invited in, his parents can’t even see it! It could be an intruder! A monster had broken into their home, and it was up to him to get it out!

Well, it  _ might  _ be up to him. He has no desire to see the creature that had hidden behind the door. The next few days, he’s terrified to approach the bathroom on his own. Every morning and every night he adjusts his teeth brushing schedule to match Ben’s and makes his twin accompany him to the bathroom at night. It’s far easier to sway Ben into coming than he’d anticipated, but his brother isn’t fond of being alone much anymore either. They proceed like this for a few days, with no signs of a monster. Two weeks later and Peter feels like maybe he  _ was _ seeing things. 

“Peter, finish your peas.” 

He clinks his fork against his plate twice, reluctance plastered to his face. To his right, Ben shovels the vile green spheres into his mouth at lightning speed, trying to bypass the taste entirely. Kaine shrieks and complains, waving his fork around and sending peas flying. Teresa claps, little tufts of auburn hair sticking up every which way and sticky with what looks like applesauce. 

“Hey, quit that.” Their dad scolds, gripping Kaine’s hand gently to cease the rapid movements. He gives the youngest brother a stern look, “Pick up your mess, we don’t want mice.” 

Peter spoons his peas into his mouth, nose pinched between two fingers to staunch the worst of the taste. There’s nothing worse than peas. Except maybe brussel sprouts. Now  _ those _ were vile. If vegetables were all demons, then brussel sprouts were the devil.

Desert that night is a scoop of vanilla ice cream and it leaves his hands sticky. It’s a good night, with no monster encounters in weeks and the remnants of sugar on his tongue. Teresa is put to bed shortly after, the baby monitor placed on the coffee table while his parents relax in the living room. He waits his turn by the kitchen sink, Ben currently occupying the step stool and washing his own sticky fingers.

His socked feet tap out an impatient rhythm on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. They’re going to be watching Ghostbusters tonight. Peter’s already seen it three times, but he’s still very fond of it. When they’d been deciding earlier, Kaine had wanted to see Terminator, but their parents shot that down immediately. For once, Peter had secretly agreed with Kaine. He hasn’t seen Terminator yet. Apparently he has to wait until he’s  _ older _ . He’s already a big boy, though, so it isn’t fair that he can’t see it! 

Ben hops down from the step stool, holding his hands out for balance. The deep scratches on his ankle are on their way to becoming fresh pink scars, curved along the flesh and hidden under his jeans. It’s been itchy lately, Peter knows. Ben complains about it constantly, says it keeps him up at night. Peter is pretty sure he’s just scared to sleep. 

He washes his hands, bobbing his head and poorly humming what he can remember of  _ Saved By The Bell’ _ s intro. When he’s finished, he dries his hands and steps down, reflexively shaking his hands of non-existent water drops. He’s got his favorite dinosaur themed socks on, they have little silhouettes of all the dinos from The Land Before Time. What’s  _ on _ the socks doesn’t entirely matter to him right now - it’s the fact that he  _ has _ socks, and is therefore able to slide across the shiny linoleum floor and pretend that he’s ice skating. He slides across the floor, past the island, hand trailing across the fridge as he passes. At the divide between the kitchen and the living room there’s a raised part across the floor, separating the linoleum from the hard wood. He pauses there, intent on entering and joining his family on the couch when he hears it. Crying. 

It sounds like Teresa, the only one young enough to generate such baby-like cries. From his position he can see the baby monitor on the coffee table, suspiciously silent. No one gives any indication that they’ve heard the cries.

“We’re starting the movie without you, Peter!” His dad warns, voice raised to carry. Peter hesitates. The crying continues, becoming clearer and more violent by the second. 

“Do you hear that?” he asks, looking to the right, where the base of the stairs is. There’s no shape through the bars, only darkening shadows as the steps rise. Still, it sounds like someone has placed a baby at the top of them, or like Teresa has somehow crawled out of her crib.

“Hear what?” his mother replies, sounding distant. His parents and brothers are more focused on the opening scene of the movie.

He takes a few steps forward, finally leaving the kitchen. Instead of joining his family on the couch, he turns to the stairs. There, he wavers. The memory of what had occurred during his asthma attack comes back full force, dread slipping down his spine like ice down the back of his shirt. Another few steps and his toes rest an inch from the first step. His hand comes up to rest on the start of the rail. Were he thinking clearly, he might go and grab his parents, or even Ben, who would believe him. But his trust in his parents has wavered and Ben is still healing. A part of him wants to turn back, to sit on the couch beside his mother and watch Ghostbusters for the fourth time, quoting half the lines in the movie while Ben fills in the rest. 

However, his sister is up there. Alone. She can’t fight back, can barely even walk. He’s the eldest brother, he’s  _ her _ big brother. 

Peter takes the first step. It creaks softly under his foot. The crying ceases. He pauses. From here he can only stare up at the mass of darkness at the top of the staircase. He takes another step and the crying starts up again, so suddenly it makes him flinch. This time it’s a little fainter, like whoever was crying had taken a few big steps back. Peter continues up the stairs, wanting to be quick and get the journey over with but also being unable to force his legs to do any more than slowly creep. Nothing happens when he reaches the top. The crying continues, now sounding like it’s coming from behind one of the doors. He peers into the darkness, only making out the faintest lines of the hallway and the shapes of the doors. 

A nervous step to the side and he’s reaching for the light switch, small hand patting along the wall until he feels it, never taking his gaze from the abyss before him. Thankfully, the hall is immediately lit up when he flips it, and he feels some tension leave his tiny shoulders. After pushing his glasses up a little he starts forward, moving slower than he normally would. Just by listening, he can tell the the crying is coming from the room at the end of the hall. He passes Teresa’s room, the bathroom, his and Ben’s, and Kaine’s before coming to a stop some five feet away from his parent’s room. 

Their door is open and he can see their bed pushed up against the opposite wall, made up with cream colored sheets and a patchwork comforter. There’s an old ceiling fan slowly whirring, a gold chain with a wooden handle dangling from the center piece. It’s still dark, but the windows on either side of the bed have their curtains shoved aside, allowing the glow of the streetlights to softly illuminate most of the shapes making up the familiar room. The crying is coming from within. Even with this knowledge, the courage to step any closer to the doorway has disappeared. The sheer feeling of  _ wrong, wrong, wrong _ permeates the air, thicker the closer he gets to the room. 

“Teresa?” he calls, voice wavering. He has to swallow past the stone in his throat, fingers dipping into his pocket to brush his inhaler. “Are you in there?” For a single moment he thinks this is all a mistake. There’s no monster, he’s just paranoid. It’s just the dark making him scared - no one likes the dark, after all! Teresa had probably gotten out of her crib, then crawled over to their parents room. Except that every door on his way down the hall had been closed, and while his sister is certainly smart, he doesn’t think she’s the type to worry about closing the door behind her just yet.

The crying stops again.

He tenses, eyes immediately drawn to the bed. The silence rings in his ears for a moment, before he detects the faintest sound of scratching - the kind of scratching a dog’s nails make across hardwood flooring. 

_ Skrit, skrit, skrit. _

There’s nothing there, but he can’t help but look at the bed, the homey blankets suddenly exuding a sense of foreboding. The dead silence accompanying the scratching makes his hair stand on end. It’s too much for him.

“Moooom! Daaaad!” he calls out, hoping his voice reaches them. Breaking the ominous silence makes him feel chilled. 

In the next split-second, a dark shape drags its way out from under his parent’s bed. Long, oily arms topped with clawed hands rapidly push the very humanoid figure out and forward. It’s far more solid in appearance than the creature who’d attacked Ben. That one had seemed like smoke, while this one looks as though a man had jumped into a vat of black paint and then proceeded to hide away under the bed. Long limbs bend and jerk, rapidly moving in a manner that looks odd and painful. What must be the head dips low to the ground, bald aside from a few scraggly patches of hair that closely resembles yarn. 

Peter screams, turning his clumsy limbs to run. Behind him he hears the creature begin to scramble even faster along the floor, crawling its way to him at a worrying speed. His socked feet thud heavily across the carpet as he runs. The door to his parents’ bedroom slams shut. Without thinking, he looks back, only for the hall lights to go out.

The sheer panic he feels overwhelms him. His legs shake with it and his eyes blur with tears. In trying to turn his head back around and keep his feet moving, he trips. He’d never been very coordinated. The meeting of his denim-clad knees and the carpet result in a hot flash of pain as the skin of his kneecaps is burned by friction. He’s been screaming the whole time, but the feeling of a hand on his back turns his cries into something primal. Moving with pure adrenaline, he lashes out with an arm, only to smack away flesh and come face-to-face with his concerned mother. 

“Peter, what on earth is going on!?” 

His father stands at the top step, and his brothers aren’t far behind. From a few doors down, Teresa makes cranky noises.

He looks into the concerned hazel eyes on his mother and breaks down into tears, pudgy fingers sliding under his glasses to wipe at his eyes. She gathers him up in her arms and lets him bawl.

* * *

_ SUMMER 1993 _

The monster encounters don’t stop. Over the course of the months following the incident in October, he learns to ignore what he can and live with what he can’t. His home becomes a place of fear rather than safety and he looks forward to leaving for school every morning, dreading the return. Whatever it is, it’s attracted to him more than his siblings. While there is some relief in that, he can’t help but be jealous of their partial immunity. He can’t afford to be flippant. But he deals with it. Some days are better than others - sometimes he goes weeks without any incident. It’s always worse when he’s alone, day or night, but the creature seems to prefer nighttime. 

He’s not really sure whether or not ‘creature’ is a fitting term for the monster. Though it contradicts everything he’s read in books, the entity doesn’t seem to be...alive. His mother and father told him ghosts weren’t real. They were both scientists who only believed in what they could see or prove. Peter followed in their footsteps, devouring any text to do with various sciences - from physics to biology to mechanics. A genius, they called him. Soon to be six and already reading the most recent publications on quantum physics. He didn’t always understand the content, but he got enough of it to stay interested and thirst for more knowledge. 

He knows what ghosts are. He’s seen the movies, the kiddy shows. He’s heard the spooky tales told around the fire on clear summer nights, or in class throughout October. The more he grows the more he realizes that his world expands beyond that of the norm. Those figures he sees on the streets, those beings with horns or wings or fangs - they’re not human. No one sees them but him and his siblings, and even then it seems like he’s in a league of his own.

Peter’s a quiet kid. He’s been told that his whole life, cheeks pinched by old ladies while they praise his manners. He’s not fond of rough-housing and he spends more time with his nose in a book than he does with other kids, excluding his siblings. It’s not that he doesn’t want to make friends, it’s just so hard to keep up with the dull hobbies of other children. None of them want to hear about Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, or read about the promising future in the war against germs. Movies like to make bionic limbs something of a fantasy, but Peter thinks it could be possible. 

In being quiet, he’s a fantastic observer. Because of this, he pinpoints the differences between him and his siblings with relative ease. He sees everything, every shadow and extra limb or wandering spirit. His siblings, and by extension other children, only seem to see the ghosts, whether those ghosts want to be seen or not. Adults see ghosts when the ghost _wants_ to be seen. Only Peter sees the colors, the wings and fangs, the shadow forms and critters that can’t possibly be human. 

As his life becomes increasingly supernatural, Peter takes to searching the sections of the library that will give him the answers he‘s desperately seeking. His mother hasn’t yet caught him with a ghost book, but he dreads the thought of it happening. He knows she’d discourage him in that gentle way of hers. Subtle disappointment is at times worse than yelling. His parents are very rooted in their scientific endeavors. In most cases, Peter is proud of that - proud of  _ them _ . But maybe there’s more to this world than what they believe. 

Maybe there’s a reason for all this, a reason for the existence of these creatures. They must be real because they’ve physically interacted with Ben. With that proven, all that’s left to do is research. A lot of the books have heavy ties to Christianity. Peter only knows about it in passing, mostly due to the religion’s overt presence in American life. His mother’s parents were Catholic, but she’s never been one for God. His father is Jewish, and so is Uncle Ben. Peter knows more about that than Catholicism, if only because Uncle Ben actually practices.

He doesn’t know if he believes in a God. Just because ghosts are real doesn’t necessarily mean that God is. Ghosts are probably residue energy. Souls. The theory that souls are actually a measurement of energy not yet detectable to human senses is interesting enough to drive him to learn more about the subject. It helps.

With every grain of knowledge he finds himself becoming more invested in the world of the supernatural. He learns about about ways to prevent hauntings and gets excited - enough to drip lines of sand across the windows, and to memorize Latin chants. For awhile, everything is fine. The encounters become less frequent. He scratches warding symbols into beads and makes a bracelet out of them. The shadow figures he sees in public begin to keep their distance. When he’s out of the house it wasn’t too bad - to begin with, but with this he feels like he’s wearing a security blanket. Like nothing could touch him.

Sometime after he and Ben turn six, his parents make a breakthrough in their studies. They’ve been working on creating a serum based on cross-species genetics. It’s revolutionary for their time...and incredibly promising. Peter’s read every paper they publish, even when the words go over his head. He has all the newspaper articles they’ve been featured in cut out and stuck to a cork board. It hangs on the wall above his desk in his room, along with pictures from the time they went to StarkExpo last year. Peter thinks Howard Stark is one of the most brilliant men to ever breathe, but he also looks like a really grumpy caterpillar. 

Mr. Stark’s seventeen year old son, Tony, was in the paper last week because he’d crashed his car. Peter doesn’t care so much about that kind of news, but he does think it’s weird that Tony Stark seems to like partying over inventing. That’s crazy talk - Peter’s  _ been _ to parties. They suck. Lucy from kindergarten had a party and it was just a bunch of toddlers running around screaming, slamming each other in the face with mud and eating too much cake while parents looked on like it was all in good fun. It wasn’t fun, it was terrible. He’d been invited again this year, and told his parents with no small amount of certainty that  _ no _ , he wasn’t going, and no amount of bribing would sway his decision. He didn’t even talk to Lucy anyway,  _ and _ she was in B class now. 

But about the ghosts - they haven’t bothered him. His and Ben’s birthday had been great. (Mostly family, no big party.) Kaine had cried and complained that they were getting gifts while he received nothing. His own birthday was a mere twenty days from theirs, on the thirtieth of August. The day had been warm and cloudless, the summer sun beating down on their necks. Sunscreen had been passed around and lathered across cheeks. They’d turned the hose into a sprinkler, and eaten cookout food with some kids from the neighborhood. Aunt May brought baked Mac ‘n Cheese, which wasn’t as awful as some of her other cooking. Uncle Ben didn’t eat any, because he didn’t have dairy with his meat and he’d already piled two burgers on his plate.

Uneventful, aside from the end when Flash Thompson’s dad had stormed up, reeking of that special drink his parents sometimes drank. (It was alcohol, but Peter didn’t really understand why someone would drink it.) His dad had to lead Mr. Thompson out, and Flash’s face had been so red it made the sunburn on the bridge of his freckled nose look pale. Peter had felt pretty bad, but didn’t really know much about Flash aside from the fact that he lived down the street and sometimes played too rough on the playground during recess.

August passed. Kaine had his birthday. The house had been filled with children with sticky hands and too-loud voices. Peter had hated every second of it, but couldn’t push himself to stay holed up in his room alone. Not when it was safer to stay with the crowd, annoying as they were. Peter had never been so glad to see Kaine’s gaggle of friends leave, muttering a good riddance under his breath.

But it’s in September, when he enters first grade, that everything changes.

That breakthrough in their research his parents made leads them to work longer hours. They become secretive, whispering around the house and peeking out the window through blinds late at night. Peter doesn’t know what to make of it, but when he asks they pretend that nothing is wrong.

“You’re just imagining things,” his mother says, brushing the hair from his forehead and smiling softly. It would be more believable if he couldn’t see the stress lines around her eyes and the wobbly quality to her smile. She taps the side of his glasses and tells him to brush his teeth for bed.

He climbs the stairs wearily, less concerned about the creatures lurking around and more about the exhaustion that clings to his parents. They think he doesn’t notice because he’s too young - but he’s not like other kids. Neither is Ben, but he’s less confrontational about it.

His twin is already in the bathroom, wearing his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas and brushing his teeth. The sink is cluttered with his mother’s products, left out when she’d rushed to get ready this morning. 

“Mnghff.” Ben greets, toothpaste foam dripping from the corners of his lips. His toothbrush is bright blue, whereas Peter’s is red. They’d both wanted red ones but his mom said they’d end up too confused and use each other’s by accident. Peter can’t think of anything grosser than sharing Ben’s mouth germs. Luckily Ben had settled for blue. His had a little gold star on the handle too, which Peter refuses to admit he’s jealous of.

There’s not much space up on the stool with Ben, but Peter manages to worm his way on without too much fuss. In the next minute he’s got his plain red toothbrush coated in toothpaste and is happily brushing away at his teeth. It’s silent for a few moments aside from the sound of scrubbing bristles. 

Ben spits, turning on the faucet. His elbow digs into Peter’s side but he doesn’t complain, just grips the counter with his free hand to keep himself up. From the corner of his eye he sees a flash of black in the mirror. His eyes are instantly drawn to the movement, but upon seeing nothing in the reflection aside from him and his twin, he turns back to the sink and spits out a gob of foam. Ben hops off and Peter eagerly moves over to take up more space on the stool. 

“I’m going to bed,” Ben states, putting his toothbrush in the little plastic cup they have reserved for just that purpose. “Are you….”

“I’m okay.” Peter replies, foam dribbling down his chin. He wipes it away. “I’ll just be a minute. Leave the door open.”

Ben shrugs. “If you’re sure.” He leaves the bathroom, wandering out into the lit hallway and crossing over into their room. Peter watches for a moment before turning back to the sink and finishing up his nightly routine. He’s not too eager to spend time alone anymore, but it’s only going to be a minute and nothing has bothered him for a few weeks now.

He’s just finishing up when he spots that flash of black again. Looking at the mirror he can see the reflection of the hallway, and this time he spots a dark shape slipping down the hall, already well past the bathroom. It’s heading in the direction of his parent’s room. Dropping his toothbrush in the cup beside Ben’s, Peter steps off the stool and creeps to the edge of the bathroom. Bracing his hands on the doorframe, he peers around and looks directly at the moving shape. 

It’s not entirely humanoid. It looks like it has too many limbs, all coming out of a very small, very disfigured sphere. It’s about the size of a dog. The kind with floppy ears like Mrs. Tyson from down the street has. Holding his breath, he watches as it skitters to his parents room, running into the door a few times with dull thuds. Too many limbs feel all around the wood, scratching and searching. Finally, one settles on the handle and tugs, jerking the door open. The creature scuttles like a crab into the room, pushing the door with its body. He wonders what it’s doing, as his parents are still downstairs watching reruns. 

Like he’d asked the question aloud, the creature stops and turns. For a terrible moment Peter thinks that perhaps he  _ has _ spoken. But no, it doesn’t move from its spot in his parents doorway, leering out into the hallway. Its odd, faceless body jerks a little in his direction and he pulls away reflexively, hiding his body from view. To his horror, he still sees the dark mass in the bathroom mirror as well as his own petrified form. From it’s position down the hall it can probably see into the bathroom, the mirror giving him away. He doesn’t move, waiting for the monster to run at him. 

It doesn’t. Even though something tells him that it’s looking  _ right at him _ , no eyes aside, it turns away and enters his parents room, the door closing behind it softer than it had been opened. Peter breathes out. He’d been holding it without realizing. The situation had been more unsettling than truly scary, like some of the previous encounters, but he still feels like he needs a puff from his inhaler. Stepping out into the hallway, Peter smacks the light switch in the bathroom and sprints across to his room as if monsters have sprouted from the sudden darkness behind him. Childish paranoia, maybe, had he not already experienced what he has.

Ben had left the door open, and he looks up when Peter sprints in but doesn’t comment on it. He has a book about stars open in his lap. Lately he’s been on a space kick, all his toys put away in favor of spaceship models. Even his sheets are now space themed, dark blue with a pattern of stars and galaxy swirls all across the comforter. Peter likes space a lot too, his own sheets are Star Trek themed. He knows enough to keep up a conversation with Ben, who devours books about the universe faster than food, but lately his own attention has strayed to the supernatural.

Peter takes his glasses off and crawls under his covers, laying back on a pillow covered in repeating Starship Enterprises. Their Power Rangers nightlight is already on, as is the lamp on Ben’s bedside nightstand. The room is awash in shadow and dim yellow tones, but it’s lit up enough to see every shape by the light spilling in from the hallway. His parents will turn it off when they come up for bed, and by then he hopes to be deeply asleep. He turns over in bed, laying on his side with his back to the wall. His and Ben’s beds are parallel, giving him a view of Ben as he reads. For a moment he can pretend that there’s nothing to fear. 

Then poisonous thoughts claw their way into the forefront of his mind, whispering of terrors to come. A child’s imagination paired with experiences worthy of a horror novel doesn’t bode well for a full night’s sleep. He finds himself being plagued very frequently by nightmares. There’s a dreamcatcher hanging off his bedpost. His mom had purchased it for him after he’d pleaded for it, despite thinking the idea was ridiculous. But Peter doesn’t ask for a lot and she’d relented. So far it hadn’t done much, but at least the dreams are harder to remember once he awakens.

What worries him now is what that monster could have possibly wanted in his parents room. They can’t see the creatures that crawl around the house, not even when they’re being stared in the face. Everything the monsters do, his parents have an explanation for. (Mostly everything, the rest they blame on his imagination.) But every time Peter looks at Ben’s scarred ankle, he knows these things are very real and very dangerous. He never wants to see any member of his family bleeding like that again. To prevent that, he needs knowledge. He needs to know how to fight back. If there’s anything Peter hates more than brussel sprouts, it’s bullies.


	3. smells like tragedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter so far! And boy, did a lot happen...the discovery of Peter's and his siblings' abilities is gonna be a pretty important, gradual plot point, so I can't answer any questions about that! Thanks for the support!! I also know that I have quite a few ships tagged, but endgame is definitely Matt/Peter, possibly Matt/Wade/Peter, depending on where the story goes. This is a HELLA SLOW BURN! Be prepared for that! Hope you guys enjoy :)

" _I had seen birth and death but had thought they were different._ "

\- T. S. Eliot

* * *

Peter wakes up at exactly 3:33am to his brother’s screaming. It’s worse than any alarm clock and gets him moving three times as fast. He’s tumbling out of bed and to his feet before his eyes have fully adjusted. The distance to Ben’s bed isn’t especially great and his eyesight isn’t bad enough yet that such a short distance is inhibiting. 

Ben is sitting straight up, arms at his side and head tilted back until he’s facing the ceiling. His mouth is open in a continuous scream, eyes wide and unseeing. Peter feels a now familiar terror in his gut, but is hoisting himself up onto Ben’s bed and shaking his twin’s shoulders despite it. Here, Peter can see that Ben’s usually golden-hazel eyes are glossed over. They look like the fake, shiny eyes Peter’s seen in those stuffed animals you see at the museum. The screaming hasn’t stopped. Peter looks around frantically and his eyes settle on the door. It’s closed, and no light shines through the crack at the bottom. His parents have likely long since gone to bed. But there’s so much noise -- Ben is screaming so  _ loudly _ , it’s impossible that they wouldn’t have heard. So where are they?

“Ben! Calm down!” He cries, shaking his brother’s shoulders one last time for good measure. 

Ben stops screaming. His eyes glimmer gold, like the foil off chocolate coins. The light vanishes in the next moment, and Ben is suddenly gasping and blinking like he’s just woken up. 

“Peter? What’s going on?” He asks, wincing and grabbing his throat. It must be worn raw from the screaming.

“Wha-What’s going  _ on _ ?” Peter exclaims, “You were screaming!”

Ben’s brow furrows, “I was?” His voice is hoarse and he grimaces after speaking. Still, he opens his mouth to speak again despite the discomfort. “W-Wait, I…I think I had a nightmare.”

“A nightmare? About what?” 

Ben pauses, contemplating. “I don’t remember, but I know it was scary.”

The doorknob rattles softly. They tense and turn to face the entrance as the door slowly opens. Peter holds his breath and waits, the room silent aside from his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Kaine’s head pops in, his dark eyes still glossy with sleep and his hair askew. When he sees that they’re both up he pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps in. Pattering over on his bare feet, he reaches Ben’s bed and pats Peter’s knee.

“It’s too quiet,” he whispers, uncharacteristically serious.

“Did you not hear the screaming?” Peter hisses, but feels oddly tense. It’s not often Kaine doesn’t shout his personality from the rooftops. If  _ he’s _ concerned about something, then Peter  _ knows _ there’s a problem. 

“Well, yeah,” Kaine’s face scrunches up indignantly, “I’m not deaf, dummy! I mean everything else!”

Ben coughs, rubbing his throat again. “What do you mean?”

“Mom and Dad.” Kaine whispers, eyes darting to the open doorway. The hall is pitch black. Peter is impressed that Kaine managed to walk from his room to theirs without freaking out. “They didn’t answer the door when I knocked. And the handle is jammed so I couldn’t open it.”

Peter glances at Ben and makes eye contact. They hold it for a second before Ben nods and they both move to slide off the bed. The room is dark aside from the nightlight, and the doorway looks like a dangerous cavern leading to their doom. The three of them stand there, fear causing hesitation. Finally, Peter sighs and straightens his back, trying to appear braver than he feels.

“Ok, let’s check it out.” He keeps his voice low, “I’m sure it’s nothing. They might just be really, really sleepy…and accidentally locked the door.”

Ben doesn’t look very convinced, but puts on his glasses as Peter tiptoes across the room to his nightstand and grabs his own. With the frames solidly on his face, Peter turns to the door and starts forward, his brothers behind him. Kaine grips the back of Peter’s shirt and Peter’s so scared that he lets him.

They make their way out into the pitch black hall. Even though it’s to be expected at this time of night, the silence feels oddly threatening. When all three of them are in the middle of the hall, Ben nudges his side.

“What about Teresa?” He whispers, and his voice sounds oddly loud despite the effort he’s making to be as quiet as possible. 

Peter hesitates, glancing at Teresa’s door. There shouldn’t be any need to check on her if there’s nothing happening. This could all be their paranoia acting up, and their parents are perfectly fine. Waking up Teresa could spell disaster. She’s not old enough to know when to be quiet. If something  _ is _ wrong, wouldn’t it be better to get their parents? On the other hand…

Gritting his teeth, Peter turns and makes his way to Teresa’s door. Kaine makes a soft sound as he’s dragged along, still gripping the back of Peter’s shirt. Carefully, he twists the handle and opens the door.

Teresa’s room is cream colored with pink finishes. Peter thinks it’s dumb to assume only girls like pink, or even that girls themselves like it. But pink was what his mom wanted, ecstatic when she found out she’d finally be getting a girl. There are cute white shelves on the wall, lined with teddy bears and dolls that you aren’t actually allowed to play with. (Which defeats the purpose, in Peter’s opinion.) Teresa has more plush animals than Peter has ever seen. Sometimes he’s jealous, but only for a moment. He doesn’t know what he’d even do with that many toys. His chemistry set is good enough for him.

Her crib is against the far wall, sheltered with a gauzy curtain that hangs from directly above. It’s relatively bright compared to the hall because the moon, large and full in the sky, is shining light in through the window. The boys dart across the room and Peter grips the bars of the crib, peering in. To his dismay the only things inside are messy blankets and Teresa’s favorite rabbit plush. It’s an ugly, ratty thing with one button eye. 

“She’s not here!” Peter hisses.

Ben looks pale, teeth digging into his lip. Kaine remains suspiciously silent, dark eyes wide and dewy with fear. For a long moment Peter feels helpless, completely and utterly. Only the worst thoughts penetrate his mind. The monster could have—

No. He can’t think like that. There  _ must  _ be an explanation. Maybe she was sleeping with their parents. Anything,  _ anything _ was better than assuming the worst. 

“C’mon,” he finally says, “Let’s go check mom and dad’s room.”

He’s scared, probably more so than he’s ever been. Everything about this night has felt wrong. Even if he wants to run back to his room and curl under the covers until sunrise, he can’t. He’s the big brother, which means it’s his job to make sure his siblings are okay. Ben would argue with him, because he’s only a few minutes younger and therefore doesn’t really qualify as a little sibling, but Peter still feels the urge to protect him. He doesn’t think that would go away even if Ben had been born first.

When they stop before their parents room, Peter feels that same sense of foreboding he’d felt earlier, before bed. Suddenly he remembers the monster he’d seen crawling into his parents room. His eyes flicker down to Ben’s ankle, where those stark white lines stand out on his skin. Had he been foolish in thinking the monster couldn’t harm his parents because they couldn’t see it? 

Sweat beads on his temple. His fingers tremble as they reach for the door handle. He feels like his body has been dumped in an ice bath, but at the same time he can’t stop sweating. Letting out a breath that sounds like a gunshot, he finally twists the knob.

Or rather, he attempts to. It doesn’t budge. Instead it squeaks obnoxiously and makes him clench his jaw so hard his teeth ache. The three of them wait with bated breath, but nothing happens.

“P...Peter…” Ben whimpers, and he sounds more scared than Peter has ever heard him. “I think I remember what my nightmare was about.”

“What?” He mutters back, “Ben, this isn’t the time—”

“No,” Ben shushes him, and it’s a little too loud for comfort. “It is. Because I remember this. I dreamt this.”

Kaine looks between them, then behind, shifting on his feet and keeping his white-knuckled grip on Peter’s shirt. “Why isn’t the door opening?”

“They locked it.” Ben whispers, staring at the door with an expression of fear so potent it makes Peter shiver. His eyes are wide enough that Peter can see the whites of them.

“Why would they do that? And where’s Teresa?” Peter whispered back quickly, “What do you mean you dreamt this?”

Ben directs his terrified gaze to Peter. He flinches back at the look in his twin’s eyes, and at the tears that begin to stream down his face. Kaine shifts again, looking more agitated and fearful as Ben begins to cry silently without changing expression. Peter can see his youngest brother’s own eyes begin to water. The situation is rapidly worsening and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Ok, ok, shh,” Peter puts a finger to his lips. “Let’s just be quiet for now. Ben, why did they lock the door?”

Ben swallows, “They’re not ready for us yet.”

That was — ominous. And cryptic. And not very helpful at all. Peter’s nose scrunches up as he looks at Ben with disbelief. “What does that mean?”

Ben says nothing, just points down. Peter follows the path of Ben’s finger with his eyes, coming to rest on the crack between the door and floor. It’s mostly dark, with faint light at the very edges, likely just the moon shining in from the windows. He’s about to ask what he’s supposed to be looking at when the darkness  _ moves. _ He freezes in utter terror as more light shines through the crack, now that whatever had been standing behind the door moved away.

He’s scared. He’s so, so, scared. He wants to turn around and run, wants to cry like Ben and Kaine are. Not a second later there’s a particularly loud cry that startles him, but it doesn’t come from his brothers. Peter looks, numb, at the locked door. That’s Teresa crying in there. Great, gasping baby sobs, high pitched and louder than a car horn. In a moment of frustrated terror he grabs the door handle and jerks it with all his strength, shoving his shoulder against the door. He’s making a bunch of noise, putting all his effort into trying to force it open. It doesn’t budge, as much as it rattles in its frame. He’s simply not strong enough.

Ben and Kaine pulls at his clothes, crying and whimpering and trying to get him to stop. How can he?  _ That’s his sister in there. _

Finally, after a couple more shoulder slams, he steps away, chest heaving. There’s a lot of fear there, deep in his gut. But there’s also rage, simmering and growing like a flame. He’s  _ angry.  _ Angry at this thing who thinks it’s fun to terrorize him and his family. It wants to hurt them, for the simple fact that it  _ can _ . 

Peter hates bullies. He hates them more than he hates brussels sprouts. This monster? It was nothing more than a big bully.

He turns to his youngest brother, gripping him by the shoulders. “Kaine, listen to me. You need to go get help.”

“What?” Kaine yelps, then slams a palm over his mouth and looks at the door. Nothing happens, so after a second he continues, “Go where? Are you crazy?!”

“Shut up and do what I say!” Peter scowls, “Run to the neighbors house! I don’t care who, anyone will do. Bang on their door, ring the bell, scream if you have to. Just get someone to answer and tell them something is wrong. Tell them someone broke in,  _ anything. _ ”

“Lying is bad,” Kaine mutters. “Santa’s watching.”

Peter gives him a hard shake. “Like you’ve ever cared about that!”

Kaine shoves at Peter’s hands, knocking them off his shoulders. There’s a scowl on his face and it sits far more naturally there than fear does. “Fine, I’ll go! Dummy!”

With only the slightest hesitation, Kaine takes off down the hall. His steps aren’t particularly quiet, but they’re far softer than his usual stomping. The path to the stairs is dark and the first floor is likely even more so. But Kaine pushes forward - probably running on adrenaline and spite, as he usually does. Peter is quite proud, in that moment. Going off alone is a scary thing.

The sound of the lock clicking draws his attention back to the door. One of Ben’s hands slides into his own. With the other, Peter grips the handle and finally, finally pushes the door open. It creaks, slowly, as he takes a step and peeks in. It’s dim, moonlight spilling across formless shapes. The air is eerily still aside from the light clicking of the ceiling fan spinning slowly, round and round and round. Teresa’s crying has stopped. Peter can make out the bed, where the sheets are pushed back near the bottom, patchwork comforter in a messy heap on the floor. 

There’s a figure sitting on the bed, their back to him and Ben. When he squints he can make out the long hair and slighter figure that signifies his mother. Her shoulders and arms move in a rocking motion, and Peter can hear quiet babbling noises. Teresa. Their mother is silent. 

“Mom?” Peter’s voice fills the silence. Ben cringes, squeezing his hand a little too hard. 

Peter sees a lot of crazy, incredible things. He sees color in people, sometimes. Most come in shades of gray, from the lightest white to the darkest black. It’s how he’s always seen others - he’d assumed it was just how people were, until he’d mentioned it once and had been looked at like he was crazy. It’s so natural to him now, as he can’t ever remember seeing any different, that he doesn’t even think about it. Those pitch black creatures were  _ evil  _ and he would have known that even if they didn’t reek of it. 

His mother, Mary Parker, has always been a shade of light gray. She’s a good person, her colors on the lighter side for an adult. Peter has always known that. His father is much the same. They both want to help people, they both want to explore the world and witness wonders. People like that don’t have dark colors. Peter  _ knows _ this, because it’s been his truth from the day he began to understand the world around him.

The figure on the bed is all black, but it turns and looks at them with their mother’s face. Peter can’t feel the floor beneath his feet. He wonders if it was ever there to begin with, if he’s not dreaming instead. The fan keeps spinning,  _ click click click _ . Can anyone else hear his heartbeat? It seems so loud, like it’s jumping its way up his throat to pop out his mouth. Peter doesn’t think it would last very long on the floor, limp and dead like roadkill. He’s sure his chest would feel very empty. He’s sure it would hurt.

Their mother doesn’t answer him, just stares at them. There’s a smile on her face that seems too wide. Peter’s never seen her mouth stretch that far. He doesn’t think it really can. Those familiar hazel eyes, eyes he’s seen a million times, are too dark. She’s supposed to have spots of brown among green, the way Teresa does. They don’t look right on her face. He can’t tell if it’s just the lighting of the room, or something else. Her colors are all wrong and it’s scaring him.

“Where’s dad?” Peter tries again, shuffling closer to Ben, until their shoulders are pressed together. 

“Peter,” Ben hisses, “That’s not mom.”

Their ‘mom’s’ head tilts, as if she’s considering Ben’s words. The floor feels like ice beneath Peter’s feet. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton swabs. Every instinct in him tells him to run, dragging his brother with him. But then his gaze catches on Teresa, in not-mom’s arms, and he realizes he could never.

“I know,” he says, and doesn’t bother whispering. Not-mom’s face shifts into one without expression. Still, she doesn’t speak, just keeps rocking an unsuspecting Teresa.

“Peter...you have to do this on your own.”

Peter doesn’t take his eyes off the figure on the bed. “What?”

“It’s just like my dream, Peter.” Ben replies, and now he’s given up whispering too. “Which means Kaine is going to need help.”

“What?” Peter repeats, but now it sounds a little strained. He’d sent Kaine away to  _ get  _ help, to where he could be safe. “Why would he need help? Teresa is right--”

His brother squeezes his hand tightly. “ _ Peter _ , dad isn’t here.” 

The ice in the floor makes its way inside, shooting up his legs and freezing his guts. He bit into a popsicle once and the sensation had almost brought him to tears. He’d never realized just how painful the cold could be until then. Now it feels like his whole body is aching with brain-freeze. It makes him want to throw up, except he’s scared to because what if it’s his heart that comes out? Vomit is not much better than roadkill, in his opinion. Both are mush and pain.

“I need to go, Peter, because if I don’t--” Ben pauses, but Peter doesn’t dare look away from their not-mom. Her head is still tilted towards them, like she’s listening to their conversation. Peter suddenly understands why Ben stopped talking.

“Okay,” he hears himself say, but it doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t feel real. “Okay, go.”

Ben’s hand slips from his own and he offers no resistance despite how much his mind screams at him to beg Ben to stay, to not leave him alone with this  _ thing _ wearing their mother’s face. He hears Ben step away, hears footsteps tiptoe down the hall near silently, until he can’t hear anything else at all but the  _ click click click _ of the ceiling fan and his own heartbeat.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. He focuses on the faint babbling of his sister. He has a goal, now he just needs a plan. Preferably one where no one ends up dead. This monster is different than the one that had attacked Ben, but in some ways it is the same. They have the same black, inky aura, feel like a frigid winter day and smell like sewage. 

Last time, he’d done something to that smokey monster. Light had spilled from him and eaten it up, like paper scraps in a fire. If he tries really, really hard, maybe he can do it again.

His not-mother stands, abrupt and unnaturally silent and he flinches back at the sudden motion. The room is heavy and still, all sharp, dark edges and painful pressure. She walks around the bed too quickly and her steps sound clunky, like she weighs a thousand pounds and is made of wood. The rapid pace sends fear shooting up his spine.

**_THUD. THUD THUD THUDTHUDTHUD._ **

Faster and faster.

She’s facing him now, and her features are waxy and fake. Her cheeks look hollow where they had been healthy only hours before. Dark circles form rings around her eyes, like the way Tommy Surelli’s eye had blackened when Lily Suza punched him in the face for wiping mud on her dress. He freezes, tense, terrified -- but she continues past him, towards the window. Peter’s mind goes blank as he struggles to figure out what’s happening, and why the closer she’d gotten to him to worse he’d felt, like a hand had reached in and squished his insides. The silence is more terrible than her appearance. The world is balancing on a string, but the string is invisible and he can’t move, else he slips right off and tumbles to his death thousands of feet below. 

She moves with swift, jerky movements, a bit like a puppet. If he looks closely, the black appears to be shifting, swirling like a black hole. Sometimes spots of gray shine through and that’s when he realizes - that  _ is  _ his mom. At least, it’s her actual body. Which means the monster is controlling her, a puppeteer and his marionette.

Peter takes a step forward, building courage out of scraps of nothing. Behind him, screaming starts. It comes from down the hall and stairs. He knows it’s his brothers. They scream and it only half sounds like fear, the rest is all aggression. Howls of determination. Amidst their war cries he hears snarling, growling, hissing. It takes a lot to not turn and glance behind him. It takes even more to stay put. He doesn’t know what’s down there, with his brothers, but moving would doom his mother and sister. All he can do is trust that Ben knows what he’s doing.

His mother shifts Teresa’s weight to one arm and opens the window. The force of her opening it rattles the frame and shatters the glass. Cracks expand like cobwebs in the wood. Peter swallows. With that kind of strength, the monster could pop Teresa like a grape. 

“Hey.” Peter finds his voice. It comes out croaky and weak. He coughs out his fear and spits it on the ground. “HEY!”

The monster in his mother’s skin doesn’t turn. She puts one foot up on the sill, glass crunching under her weight. He sees blood begin to drip down, staining the old white wood. Peter doesn’t think anymore. He runs, steps like thunder across the floor. His hands grasp at his mother’s shirt and he  _ tugs  _ with all his strength. She doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even look back at him. The aura around her shifts and wobbles, then lunges out. It hits him square in the chest and sends him flying. He hits the floor and skids a few feet, the wind knocked out of him. With shaky, sweaty hands he pushes himself up once more. Deep breaths. It wouldn’t do to have an asthma attack. His inhaler is all the way back in his bedroom, sitting uselessly on his nightstand.

The monster moves his mother’s body until she’s leaning out the window. Peter grabs at her again, and this time her face turns to him. She looks terrifying, her features screwed up in rage. The wrinkles by her eyes and mouth are far deeper than they’ve ever been and from this close he can see that her eyes really  _ are  _ black. It hadn’t been the lighting. Her jaw is shifting back and forth,  _ back and forth _ , grinding her teeth to an audible extent.

Peter remembers the feeling of choking on his own throat, the way it had closed up like a door, locked and key thrown away. The pressure that exudes from the creature infecting his mom feels much the same, like invisible hands wrapped around his thin neck and choking the air out of his lungs. It’s feels like too much and nothing at all, standing in this now tainted room with his mother, his sister and  _ it _ . He thinks he’s gone beyond the point of fear. It escapes in the sweat pouring from his skin, until all he feels is numbness and determination. 

His mother’s arm whips out and smacks him across the face. A sound of pain escapes him and his glasses brush painfully across his face before spinning off and clattering against the ground. Like his glasses, the force of the blow sends him reeling back a few feet and crumpling to the floor. Peter is a lot of things. Stubborn, relentless, incredibly intelligent, selfish - but he’s also just a child. He’s six years old and pain doesn’t play much of a factor in his life aside from stubbed toes and skinned knees. The asthma attack had been the most painful experience he’d ever had.

But this is worse. His face  _ burns _ , stinging and throbbing immediately after the blow. He feels fire by his temple and across the bridge of his nose, tastes iron as it spills from his nostrils and over his teeth. The inside of his cheek had split against his teeth, and his nose had crunched easily and painfully under his mother’s forearm. When he tries to sob it only feels worse, the muscles of his face contracting painfully around the injured flesh and cracked cartilage. 

The pain does not deafen him to the cries of his sister. Bleary-eyed and spitting blood, he squints over to the blurry shape of his mother and sees her holding his squirming sister out of the window. Peter’s entire face throbs to the beat of his heart. Dark crimson stains his flesh and his shirt, slipping through the cracks in his fingers as he tries to staunch the bleeding. It hits the floor with a gentle  _ pat pat pat. _ Glass crunches and cuts beneath his mother’s feet, and her blood  _ plop plop plops _ . Teresa screams.

Peter gets up. He rises on shaky feet because he has to, because the alternative is doing nothing and he doesn’t think he’d ever forgive himself. 

_ DO SOMETHING. _

He runs at her, cutting his feet on glass shards. His hands find her arm again, and this time he puts all his might into it, screaming as he does. Tears and blood mix on his face and slide from his chin and he keeps going, keeps pulling and crying out until he feels heat in his chest. His head is dizzy with it, cotton balls and molten lava - he feels it spread to every point in his body, ignited by the sheer intensity of his desperation. 

The light is not kind.

It sears his skin, sharp like a full-body sting. It pulses and claws out of his flesh like it had never been a part of it him, like it could never have been contained in his small, fragile body. It is too big for his bones, a wildfire, an inferno that rages with the intent to turn everyone and everything to ash. It is rebirth, cleansing by fire, the finality of end that new life will sprout from. Peter cannot scream. He cannot breathe. His body is nothing but that light, and that light is everything. From the second story of his home he feels the earth spinning, blooming, rotting. Mortal forms are not meant to house the sun and it spills from him like it’s free at last, like he’d been the jailor of a great, impossible god.

While he can’t scream, his mother can. She howls like a beast, tearing her throat to shreds. The darkness surges around her, boiling and bubbling away from her form. Tendrils of black cling desperately, trying to forcefully stay attached to her body. It withers like a decaying plant in mere seconds. Peter hears a roar from beyond the inferno of white light spilling from him, the blackness swirling and gathering behind his mother into a figure he doesn’t recognize. It’s humanoid, with dark, gray skin and features too sharp to be human. Teeth protrude from its mouth like there’s not enough space to hold them all, and what look like massive ram horns curl from its temples to the back of its head.

His mother slumps like her strings have been cut, toppling to the floor with Teresa in her arms. Peter lunges forward to grab his sister, who screams as she’s moved roughly. He hits his knees hard with her heavy in his arms, her limbs flailing. His mother’s body hits the floor with a loud thud. The light surges from his skin and envelopes the creature. It looks like a demon in a picture book, and Peter realizes that that is exactly what the creature is. A demon. Infesting his home and bullying his family. 

The light continues to spill and spill, so bright he can’t bear it. He covers Teresa’s eyes with a hand and squeezes his own as tightly as he can and yet still sees it. It burns through his eyelids. He holds his sister close and wishes, desperately, for all this to just  _ stop _ and for the demon to  _ leave and never come back _ . Along with the light is the roaring of the demon, and it only grows louder and louder until his ears ring painfully with it and he thinks he’ll die here. His eardrums feel like they’re going to pop and all he can do is sit here, unable to scream, while his sister cries enough for the both of them.

Then it stops. All of it. It’s suddenly quiet and dark and the whiplash of it all makes him sick, so sick he turns his head and vomits. His grip on Teresa loosens and she sobs in his lap, chubby limbs smacking him. It’s just them in the room, with the stink of sweat and vomit and blood. Their mother is silent and unmoving on the ground, her long auburn hair limp and messy around her head.

Peter sits there and stares, his body tingling like it does when he lays on his arm wrong. Mary Parker was always a light gray. It’s a color he associated with her just as he did her hair and eyes. He blinks, over and over and over. She stays there on the ground, far too still. There is no color. He wonders if this is how normal people see others.

The sound of sirens can be heard in the distance.

* * *

Peter doesn’t say much when the police come in. They search the house like they think someone could be hiding, but they won’t find anyone. Peter can feel it. That demon is gone and only they remain. 

An officer speaks to him, voice low and soft. He takes off his hat and he’s balding, but he’s got a full mustache. Peter likes him, because his color is only a few shades darker than his mother’s was and he doesn’t try to make Peter speak. He picks up Teresa in one arm and lets Peter hold his free hand. They walk out of the house.

There’s an ambulance outside. It turns out that one of their neighbors had heard screaming and assumed the worst. It’s Mrs. Hopkins and her husband, who live right next door. They’re both out in the yard in their pajamas and robes. Mrs. Hopkins puts her hands to her mouth when she sees him and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen an adult cry in real life, only in movies, but Mrs. Hopkins does. Peter can’t hear the  _ drip drip drip  _ of his blood anymore, but he can feel it congeal on his face. He can’t hear a lot of things - it sounds like he’s underwater. Except he’s not at the pool, he’s walking to the ambulance. The world is muffled and shaking, but some paranoid part of him still feels like he can make out the  _ click click click _ of the ceiling fan.

Kaine and Ben are sat in the back of the ambulance and their father is nowhere to be seen. Peter hadn’t paid attention when he’d walked down the stairs with the officer, so he can’t say if his dad is somewhere inside. He joins his brothers on the back of the ambulance and takes a moment to observe them. Kaine is crying, holding on to Ben and refusing to let go even as EMTs try to pry him away with soft words to treat the cut on his forehead. It’s bleeding still, as head wounds are prone to, and his right eye is squeezed shut to keep blood from getting in it. There are bright red welts on his arms that are sure to bruise, and a dark hand print around his throat. 

Ben isn’t much better off. His bottom lip is swollen and split, trailing blood down his chin. There are tears of pain in his eyes, one of which is rapidly swelling and darkening. He looks like he’s been smacked around quite a bit - they all do. Peter can’t imagine what the police must be thinking. He wonders if they’d believe him if he told them it was a demon that did it - a monster made of ink and hatred, with horns and too many teeth.

The EMTs flash lights in their eyes, prod their bruises and ask if anything hurts. Everything hurts. His feet burn with slivers of glass shards, his knees and elbows ache from being tossed to the ground, his face throbs and stings and  _ everywhere _ feels like his skin has been pasted back on the wrong way.

They go to the hospital, riding in the back of the ambulance and being fussed over by adults who look at them with pity. There are only two windows in the back, one small one on each door. He can’t see out of them, and it’s a lot more cramped than he ever imagined. They aren’t even at a hospital yet and it already smells like one. Peter can hear the sound of sirens escorting them as they drive. They don’t stop the whole way there, even though they must have passed stop signs and red lights. That’s breaking the law - except ambulances get a pardon. Riding in one isn’t as exciting as he’d imagined.

When they finally do stop, the doors are opened and Peter is put on a gurney because his feet have glass shards in them, and he hadn’t even cared enough to say as he’d walked out of his house. Now they’re bleeding pretty badly and he’s not allowed to put pressure on them. He feels so incredibly tired. He feels like a match that’s just been blown out, smoldering and smoking but unable to set anything ablaze. All his fire has left him to burn down the demon. Peter is glad. The demon deserved it for hurting his family. He hopes it learned its lesson and never comes back, because Peter will extinguish himself a million times to keep his family safe. (If he ever figures out the extent of his abilities.)

Peter doesn’t like needles but he lets them put in an IV. Some people try to ask him questions but his tongue is so heavy and his mind feels like it’s moving at the speed of a snail. He’s wading through molasses and tar.  _ This must be the speed that normal people think at. _ It’s a terrifying thought, one that Peter doesn’t like very much. 

He sleeps.

* * *

The wake for his mother and father is held at a funeral home, not a church. His father wasn’t catholic and his mother didn’t practice, so a regular ol’ service is what they get. Kaine and Ben haven’t spoken to Peter about what happened with their father, and he’s not sure if he really wants to know. What happened with his mother is already too much for him to process. He has nightmares almost every night, and Ben has it a million times worse - plus, they still haven’t talked about how he had apparently dreamt of the future. When they’d left the hospital they’d been put in the care of their Aunt May and Uncle Ben, who were incredibly distraught but still put on brave faces for the sudden arrival of four young children. Peter only knows they were hurting just as much because he was doing the same thing. It was only at night that his mask cracked and he cried for his parents, safe in the arms of his Aunt but wishing it was someone else.

Peter doesn’t know how the demon killed them. He doesn’t know what the demon did to possess them to begin with. What he does know is that he’s going to  _ learn. _ He’s going to figure it out and wipe every demon off the face of the planet so they can’t hurt anyone else the way this one hurt him and his family. 

Ben is recovering from a concussion. He has sunglasses on and for a few days after the event he’d been three shades too pale and on the verge of vomiting but never quite making it. Kaine’s bruises had settled into a galaxy of deep purples and reds, and by now they’re beginning to tinge green and yellow. Peter’s feet are still sore and his face is a mess of broken blood vessels.

It’s been two weeks. 

He’s dressed in a nice rental suit and sitting stiffly as huge wooden boxes containing his parents are lowered into the ground. Kaine is crying again. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever heard his little brother cry the way he has these two weeks. It makes Peter sick. He wears his protection bracelet every day and has obsessively been reading more,  _ learning  _ more. Different religions and practices offer different symbols of protection so he uses all of them for good measure. If his Aunt and Uncle are concerned about his use of salt and crayon drawings of odd symbols hanging around the room they don’t say anything, far more occupied with the mess of funeral arrangements and four extra mouths to feed.

Teresa is babbling, almost two and unaware of what’s happened. Every once in awhile she’ll ask for ‘mama’ and ‘dada’. She’s young though, and soon she’ll forget about them. Peter watches his Aunt gently bounce Teresa in her arms, her face tired and drawn. Make-up can’t hide the shadows of emotional pain clinging to her soft features. Uncle Ben looks at the graves as they’re filled in, his hand on a shaking Kaine’s shoulder. He looks impossibly sad, like there’s a thousand things he wants to say but can’t because the ears the words are meant for will never hear again. Uncle Ben to their Dad was what Peter is to Kaine and as much as Peter can’t stand Kaine most times, he can’t imagine what it would feel like to have to watch his body be lowered into the ground. Even a voice as annoying as Kaine’s is one he’d despair at never hearing again.

The ceremony proceeds. Peter feels overwhelmed. It’s moving so fast - faster than he wants to even begin to process. He’s six years old and he wants his parents alive and well. He’s heard the saying that the most painful thing is to have to bury your children, but Peter’s realizing burying your parents isn’t a walk in the park either.

It’s too busy in the cemetery. There aren’t many here for the Parker’s funeral, as their parents didn’t have many friends outside of work or much extended family to speak of. The guests aren’t what makes it crowded, it’s the  _ ghosts _ . There’s tons of them, from the faintest speck to super solid forms that Peter almost mistakes for actual people, if it weren’t for the muted colors and slight opacity. They’re actually quite respectful, all things considered, hovering around the whole proceeding in a perfect circle and never taking a step closer, like there’s an invisible line that’s been drawn. Still, it makes him uncomfortable to have so many eyes observing. It feels a bit like they’re boxed in on all sides with no escape, even though Peter knows the ghosts can’t actually touch them. (He wonders if they could, however. If they really wanted to.)

A few people start saying words but Peter doesn’t hear them. He’s had a lot of trouble with that these past few days - ever since that night he’s felt like he’s been dropped underwater. His Aunt is making him see a therapist next week...he’s not looking forward to that, but maybe the doctor guy can help pull him to the surface. It’s really lonely down in the depths.

“Peter,” Aunt May says, voice quiet and soft like she’s speaking to a spooked animal. She’s used that tone a lot lately. “Do you want to say something?”

He looks around and sees everyone looking at him, waiting. Even the ghosts. They don’t say anything but the silence is heavy, too heavy. It’s a weight he’s not ready to carry or break. So he runs. Turns and breaks away from the small crowd only to dive headfirst into one made up of the dead. 

“Peter!” Aunt May shouts after him.

He doesn’t look back, but he hears his Uncle’s voice consoling her. 

“Let him run,” Uncle Ben says, “Let him breathe.”

Peter runs past half-formed figures and gravestones old and new, some polished and clean while others are worn with time and abandonment. He runs with his head lowered, counting the cracks in the pavement. Some have little flowers and weeds sprouting out of them, life emerging from the land of the dead.

Faster, until he’s tripping over his own clumsy feet, Peter runs. He makes it out of the cemetery and onto the sidewalk, where he heaves for breath and pulls his inhaler out of his pocket to use. The sounds of New York blare around him, car horns and yelling and engines roaring. He doesn’t stray too far because as much as he wants to get away, he doesn’t want to end up lost. Sniffing heavily and scrubbing an arm across his misty eyes, Peter ends up sitting on a bench just outside of the cemetery to wait. 

There’s a boy beside him, with red hair and sunglasses. Freckles are splashed faintly across pale cheeks and a red and white cane hangs loosely in the boy’s hand. He’s older than Peter by just a few years. It takes a second for Peter to realize that the red-haired boy is probably  _ blind _ . He sniffs again and turns away, not wanting to be caught staring - then feeling silly because he can’t be.

“Are you alright?”

Peter looks up, blinking rapidly. The boy is turned towards him, and now that Peter is allowed to look closer he sees that the boy’s knuckles are bright red and bruised, and there are band-aids on his arms. They’re just plain beige, which is not as fun as the colored ones he got at the hospital. Peter wonders if a demon beat him up too. It could be possible, because the boy looks different and bullies pick on people like that. He’s not talking about the blind thing either, though Peter is sure it earns the boy his fair share of grief. It’s the color splashed across his aura. Bright, brilliant red, as vibrant as a cardinal. It looks like a paint smear going from one ear to the other right across his face. There’s another dash of the pretty color hung just above him, like an unfinished halo.

A moment longer and Peter realizes that he’s expected to answer. “O-Oh, uh, yeah. I’m okay.” He lies, voice thick. He’s started to cry a little and he hates it. Crying in public is the worst.

“It’s okay if you aren’t,” the boy says, “You can ugly cry all you want and I won’t judge you for it. Can’t even see it.”

Peter giggles before he can help himself and the red-haired boy smiles a little at the sound. “Sorry - that’s not really funny…’n I don’t need to cry. I’m a big boy.”

The boy shakes his head, “It’s fine. I don’t mind. And I do mean it, I won’t make fun of you for crying if that’s what you’re worried about. Even adults cry.”

Peter kicks his legs out a bit, swinging them as he sits. He figures that must be true, because before he’d thought that only adults in movies cried - and that was fake - but recently it feels like all anyone has been doing is crying, no matter their age. 

“I don’t wanna cry.” He admits, spilling more than he has to any adults so far. “I’m tired of it. I just want everything to be normal.”

The crimson boy hums. “What’s your name, tough guy?”

“Peter Parker.” He replies, “What’s yours?”

“Matthew Murdock, but you can call me Matt.” The boy, now Matt, says. He leans in a little and Peter can see his reflection in the dark shades the other wears. “Peter, can I ask you a question?”

Peter thinks he knows what the question is. “...I guess.”

“You came from the cemetery, right?”

“How’d you know?” It’s probably rude to ask, but Peter’s tongue moves faster than his brain. “I-I mean…”

Matt laughs, and it’s a nice sound in comparison to all the crying Peter’s been subject to these past two weeks. “Like I said, it’s okay. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me. I just assumed it was that, or you’re lost. Why else would you be crying while saying you don’t want to?”

It makes enough sense that Peter can only nod, then realizes that Matt can’t see that. “Y-Yeah.” He clears his throat. It still feels like there’s a lump there and if he speaks too much too fast it’ll break and he’ll dissolve into tears. “My mom and dad died. We’re having the funeral right now.”

“Oh.” Matt doesn’t sound surprised or pitying, just accepting. His smile is a little softer, “I get it. I lost my dad too, and I never had a mom to start with.”

It’s not the best thing to have in common with someone, but Peter finds himself relaxing a bit more. “Do you have an Aunt and Uncle to take care of you too?”

“I don’t. I stay at an orphanage, mostly. But it sounds like  _ you  _ do.” 

Peter finds himself nodding again. “Oops -- I mean, yeah. Sorry. I nodded. My Aunt May and Uncle Ben are watching us now.” He sighs and looks down, fiddling with his bracelet. “But I feel bad because there’s four of us and their house isn’t very big...do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Matt shakes his head, “It’s just me.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and he finds that very lonely. He doesn’t know what he’d do without his siblings, or who he’d play with. Matt must get really lonely, and Peter bets the other kids are mean. (Kids always are.)

Like he knows where Peter’s thoughts are going, Matt tilts his head and offers a consoling grin. “I can feel you worrying and you don’t need to. I’m fine. But thanks, you’re a nice kid.”

“I’m not a  _ kid _ ,” Peter complains halfheartedly. “I’m a  _ big boy. _ ”

Matt’s eyebrows raise and he smiles again, but it doesn’t look condescending. “Oh, yeah? How old are you then, big guy.”

“...Ten.” Peter lies.

Matt makes a sharp sound, like a buzzer at the end of those sports games Uncle Ben watches. “Try again, and don’t lie.” He taps his nose, “I can smell it.”

Peter flushes a little at being caught out. For all he knows, Matt  _ can _ smell lies. It’s not like he has any idea what those splashes of red mean. Maybe he has superpowers!

“I’m six,” Peter admits, “But I’m the oldest so I have to be  _ responsible _ . Aunt May says I’m more mature than most adults! Can you really smell lies?”

“One, you’re still a kid,  _ kid _ . Two, that’s a secret.” Matt puts a bruised-knuckle finger to his lips and grins mischievously. It’s not a  _ no, _ and Matt doesn’t really look like a liar. His aura is pretty bright, scarlet aside. Peter doesn’t think liars have bright colors. Then again, all people around Peter’s age have pretty bright auras, so maybe it’s a kid thing. Sally from down the street has a soul as bright as Ben’s and she lies all the time. She gets caught, too, but never seems to learn her lesson. 

“But you  _ are _ special, right?” Peter asks, leaning forward into Matt’s space. “Because people with colors always are!”

Matt looks a bit taken aback, “Er...colors?”

“Oh, right.” Peter makes a face. “Well, I think even if you could see, you wouldn’t see the colors.”

“Peter, you’re not making too much sense,” Matt says gently, his hand reaching out and hovering a bit before clapping awkwardly onto Peter’s shoulder.

“Sorry…” Peter bites his lip, deflating. “I just thought...maybe you were like me. It’s silly.”

A few birds fly overhead, chirping loudly. Peter watches a group of people cross the street in a mob. He wants to know that he’s not crazy, and that what he sees is real. Ben’s aura has always been bright, but tinged with a sort of lavender that turned a darker shade of purple towards his head, in a seamless full-body gradient. Ben also apparently dreams of the future, and feels the presence of ghosts. The colors added to the gray-scale aura  _ meant _ something, Peter is sure of it. Maybe Matt just doesn’t know it, or doesn’t realize.

“It sounds important to you though.” Matt finally murmurs, looking oddly out-of-sorts. “So maybe it isn’t so silly.”

Peter hesitates. “Well…”

“I won’t laugh at you, remember?” Matt marks an invisible X over his chest with a finger. “Cross my heart.”

“Ok…” Still a little skeptical, Peter nervously plays with the beads on his bracelet for comfort. It’s kinda mean to think, but Peter knows if it turns out badly he can just run away and Matt probably won’t be able to find him. “Well, you have red on your aura. ‘N my brother has purple and he has funny dreams and can tell whenever the library ghost is around the corner. I can’t see my own, so I don’t know if I have a color, but I can see everyone else’s.”

“Oh.  _ Oh. _ ” Matt lets out a breath that sounds kind of...reverent. It reminds Peter of the when his mom or dad would make a discovery that was a surprise - but a good one. Thinking about his parents hurts a little, so he tries not to for too long. “I believe you, Peter.”

“You  _ do _ ?” He’d wanted Matt to, obviously, but having it actually happen is more than a little shocking. Peter is used to hiding it, coveting his skills like it’s something shameful. “Really?”

“Really, really.” Matt affirms, and his grin is a little softer at the edges. “You have a pretty nifty gift there, Pete. And you were right about me, I do have one of my own.”

A gift? Peter has never really thought of it in that sense, especially since it’s only ever really brought him and his family trouble. “You do? See, I knew you were special!”

Matt’s cheeks flush like Peter’s do when he’s sunburned. “I don’t know about  _ special _ , but I have a little gift of my own.” He taps his ears. “I can hear everything. Even your heartbeat, kid.”

Peter gasps, “ _ Super-senses!  _ You’re like Superman!”

“I-I mean, I guess. Not really. Maybe...well, it’s a little like that, probably.” Matt stutters, pushing up his sunglasses in what looks to be a nervous habit. 

“That must be nice…” Peter sighs. “I wish I had powers...all I can do is--” He pauses, coming to the sudden realization that he may, in fact, have powers beyond just seeing everything.  _ The light. _ “Oh.”

“What?” 

“Well. I think I can burn things.” He admits.

Matt tilts his head. “In...what way? Because I’m pretty sure most people can, some even without a match.”

Peter pouts, wishing Matt could see the very displeased expression on his face. “I mean  _ magically _ , like  _ booooom _ ! It comes out of my skin and makes everything super bright and disappear! That’s what it did to the demon.” He whispers the last part, not eager to relive the memory. “But it didn’t help my mom...so maybe it’s a useless superpower.”

Matt’s mouth drops a little at the information, but instead of commenting on the powers he starts with: “A demon hurt your mom?” 

“Yeah...he was in her body. It made her aura all black and gross.” Peter looks at Matt, sniffing again as his eyes begin to burn just thinking about it. “‘N she really loves - loved us, I swear. So I know it wasn’t her, because she’d never try to throw Teresa out the window or, or - or hit me.”

“Of course not,” Matt consoles, and his voice is quiet and his hand is heavy on Peter’s shoulder once more. “I said I believed you and I still do. A demon’s job is to hurt people so they can make us weak. That way, they can take our souls.”

“But I got rid of it.” Peter wipes at his eyes. “I used my light to get it off of her and she still...she still…” A tear slips down his cheek. “Did the demon get her soul?”

“....I….I don’t think so.” Matt doesn’t look very sure. “If you forced it out of her than it’s doubtful. It could have just been that she was ...severely weakened. The demon just hurt her too bad while it had her.”

Peter looks at the other boy imploringly, “I didn’t kill her?”

“No, Peter!” The older boy shakes his head. “No way. It was the demon, I’m sure of it.”

Peter nods and sniffs heavily. “I was worried it was all my fault. It still feels like it was, because bad things always seem to happen when I’m around. All these bad guys keep showing up…” He blinks, coming to a sudden realization. “Wait, you know about demons and stuff? Is it because of your powers?”

Matt sits back on the bench, twisting his cane in his hand. He purses his lips before answering, “A bit. My powers didn’t help much when my dad died, so I get how that feels. But they  _ do  _ help with hunting down bad guys - demons and ghouls and all those evil creatures that go bump in the night. I’m learning how to fight them so people won’t have to be scared anymore.”

Peter gapes, astounded. “That’s what I want to do!” He says, “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt if I can do something about it.”

“Well, Pete, it sounds like you make a pretty good demon slayer already.” Matt presses his finger to Peter’s nose, grinning cheekily. Peter can’t help but be impressed at the accuracy, even as he scrunches his nose up cutely.

“Can I train with you?” he asks, “You’re learning how to fight them, right?”

“Yeah...I am.” Matt nods, but his smile drops. Peter thinks that’s a shame, because he’d looked better with it. “But I don’t think you want to train with me.”

“Why not? I can do it!” He exclaims, pressing a hand to his chest. His heartbeat is loud against his palm. “You said it yourself, I make a good one! I beat one up already!”

“Whoa, Peter, I’m not saying you  _ can’t _ .” The older boy waves a hand frantically, like he’s scared Peter will break down in tears once more. “It’s just that...well, the guy teaching me is...blind. Like me. It’s specialized training!”

Peter purses his lips, “Oh. I guess that makes sense. Your superpowers are different from mine.” Still, it seems a waste. “There really isn’t anything he can teach me?”

Matt’s face looks stormy, like he’s tasted something bad. “No, I don’t think so. ‘Sides, you should be able to find help at-- oh, wait. This is the cemetery, isn’t it...You’re not catholic?”

“Mostly Jewish,” Peter replies, “but I’m not really…”

The older boy shakes his head, “It’s fine, that’s not something I really worry about. Everyone believes their own thing. I was gonna say you could probably go to your local church, but maybe a synagogue would be better. Even if you don’t believe in God, they can probably offer blessings to help protect you.”

“Oh…” Peter’s never thought of that. What feels like a million hours of researching and it’s like he retained nothing at all. How could he forget that the spiritual realm has heavy ties with religion? It can only be his fault, he’d been so obsessed with the idea of turning it into a science that he’d neglected a major source. All because he wasn’t particularly sold on the idea of God. (Still wasn’t.) “Is that what you do? Get blessings to protect you while you’re training?”

“Not really…” Matt shrugs, scuffing his feet. His head tilts to the side a bit like a dogs does when it hears something. “I have to fight anything that attacks. It’s part of training.”

Peter glances up and sees a ghost floating by. It’s not the worst one he’s ever seen - and it’s likely no ghost will ever match the terror of facing a demon - but it’s certainly not a pretty sight. It’s a man, with blood permanently dripping down his face from a long cut on his forehead. One of his legs dangles uselessly as he floats towards them, bone popping out of his thigh. Ghosts always look like they’ve been zapped of 50% of life’s normal saturation levels and this one is no different. The deep crimson spilling down his face and leg looks almost black. 

“That doesn’t sound super safe,” Peter mumbles, finally looking away from the ghost. It’s still over twenty feet back but it’s stopped moving towards them. The ghosts in the cemetery were basic, laid to rest and unaggressive. They didn’t present a threat and therefore the bracelet he wore around his wrist had just been that. A bracelet. The symbols he’d scratched into each bead were specifically to ward off  _ evil _ . 

The ghost man can’t move any closer. Peter watches from the corner of his eye as the spirit pushes against an invisible barrier and grows visibly frustrated when he can’t continue towards them. Peter knows what that means -- the man has progressed beyond a simple ghost and is now a poltergeist. He’s a  _ mean _ ghost.

“You see him?” Matt whispers, head still tilted towards the poltergeist. “Weird. He’s not coming any closer despite both of us being here…”

“Oh,” Peter holds up his wrist without thinking. “It’s because of my bracelet! It keeps bad ghosts away.”

Matt looks bemused at Peter’s innocent motion. “I bet it’s lovely.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes quickly, cheeks flushing cherry red as he drops his hand back into his lap. “But it really works. Not on super strong guys or anything, but it keeps most of the annoying ghosts away. That guy can’t come any closer when I have this on.”

A woman walks right through the poltergeist and shivers, shrugging her shoulders and pulling her windbreaker more securely around her. The spirit is distracted from them and turns to follow her a brief few steps, before becoming disinterested and wandering away completely. Matt’s shoulders drop a little and he lets out a breath. Peter hadn’t even noticed that the older boy had tensed up.

“That’s pretty cool, Pete. Seems like it would come in handy -- a bit like a blessing, though those only last for a short amount of time.” Matt puts both hands on his cane and leans forward a little. He sounds a bit wistful. “I got a blessing once, but it only lasted for a week.”

“Take it.” 

Matt straightens up, head tilting to face Peter full-on. “What?”

Peter shrugs his shoulders, pulling the bracelet off his wrist. He scoots over on the bench until he’s close enough to Matt that their knees almost touch. “I can always make another one and it looks like you need it more than I do.” He goes to grab Matt’s hand and the older boy lets him, looking a little shell shocked at Peter’s bold move. “Here, feel the beads!”

Matt cradles the bracelet in his hand, fingers running over the little symbols. His brows draw low as he tries to figure out what they are. Peter puts his hand on Matt’s, pushing his finger to feel over one of the beads. 

“This is the Solar Cross, it casts out shadows. I dunno if you ever get followed by shadow people, but this should help with that!” He pushes Matt’s finger to feel each one as he names them. “And this is the  _ Hamsa, _ for warding off the evil eye. Then we have the Hexagram of Solomon, and a Bindrune I tried out...and this last one is a Celtic Shield Knot!”

“You really went all out, huh?” Matt’s freckled cheeks look like sunburns again. “Are you sure I can have this?”

“Yeah!” Peter grins at the older boy. “And I still have a lot more to learn! This isn’t even close to all the symbols individual cultures offer as a means of protection--”

Matt laughs, “You’re gonna be scary when you’re older, huh?”

“The scariest!” Peter exclaims, nodding vehemently. “I’m gonna be what the monsters are to us... a monster’s monster!”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt smiles, and it’s a soft thing, like he actually thinks Peter can do it. “I feel safer already.”

Adults always looks down on kids, even ones as smart as Peter. It’s annoying to be faced with baby-talk and a ‘ _ sure you can _ ’ when he’s trying to be serious. Hearing validation, even from someone only a few years older than him, does a lot. Peter ducks his head bashfully, kicking his legs.

They sit in silence for a moment. It’s not an awkward one, but Peter still feels his heart beat pick up. Anxiety, maybe?

“Uh-” he begins.

“Um-” Matt starts.

They both pause and Peter can’t help but laugh. Matt huffs a little, another smile on his face, this one wide enough to flash his teeth. 

“Peter?” 

He jerks, turning to face the cemetery entrance. Aunt May stands there, Teresa still on her hip. His sister looks tired, head dipping every once in a while. If she isn’t put down for a nap soon, she’s start getting cranky and no one wants that. When she sees him she perks up a little and waves her clumsy hand.

Smiling briefly at his little sister, Peter tries to keep the nerves out of his voice. “Aunt May... sorry about running.” He doesn’t think he’ll be in trouble, but he’s still getting used to having his Aunt be in charge. She’s probably still getting used to it too, since she’s never had kids before, even though her and Uncle Ben are older than Peter’s parents were. There’s nothing wrong with that, his parents used to say that a family didn’t always mean children. Thinking of that does make him feel a little bad that they’re now stuck with four, when maybe they didn’t even want one.

“It’s okay, Peter.” She says, soft and understanding. There’s less pity on her face than usual. “I’m sorry you were put on the spot like that.”

Peter frowns at the ground, glancing at Matt. He’d almost forgotten why he’d run out to begin with. May follows his eyes to the red-head beside him, taking in the way they’re sat closely together. She lingers a little too long on Matt’s glasses and cane. 

“Did you make a friend?” she asks, and Peter’s just thankful she didn’t try to bring up the elephant in the room. Er, on the street?

“Matthew Murdock,” the older boy smiles winningly at May. “You must be Peter’s Aunt May, though you don’t sound old enough to be anyone’s aunt.”

She laughs, and amusement looks better on her face than sorrow. “How charming! Thank you for keeping Peter company.”

“Oh, it was no problem. We had a lot of fun talking!” Matt’s hand comes out, far more clumsily than it had when they were alone, and pats Peter’s shoulder. “I should thank  _ him _ for keeping  _ me _ company.”

From that uncoordinated motion alone Peter can tell right away that Matt is keeping his powers secret. Like a real superhero! He stares at Matt with starry eyes and hears his Aunt let out a tiny laugh.

“How nice,” she replies, and it sounds like she means it. Aunt May has always been a really good person, Peter thinks he’d know that even if he couldn’t see the light gray of her aura. “Do you live around here? Maybe we could set up a playdate or something.”

Peter wrinkles his nose at the term  _ playdate _ but can’t help the excitement he feels at potentially meeting up with Matt once again. All the kids in his grade are super annoying and really mean at times. Matt is more mature, being a few years older, and he’s a little like Peter, so that’s great.  _ And _ he’s nice! 

“Actually I don’t.” And Peter can feel his dreams shatter as Matt speaks. “I’m actually from Hell’s Kitchen. I’m just here with, uh, my guardian.”

“Oh…we’re in Forest Hills. Not crazy far but not too close.” Aunt May purses her lips and glances around. There aren’t any adults around. Well, none that aren’t just passing by and minding their own business. “Did you get separated? Are you lost?”

Matt offers another megawatt grin, trying to ease her suspicions. “No! It’s ok, he’s just grabbing something at the store across the street. I haven’t been here long.”

May still looks like she wants to say something about leaving a blind kid on his own in front of a busy street, but switches the topic anyway. “Well, that’s good then. And it’s too bad we aren’t closer, I’m sure Peter would have loved seeing you again.”

Peter flushes, “Aunt Maaay, stop!”

“Oh, alright,” She shifts Teresa up a little higher on her hip. “Anyway, it’s time for you to say goodbye. The car’s parked on the other side of the cemetery and we’re heading out.”

Matt shifts his head down so it almost feels like he’s looking at Peter. “Guess this is goodbye. Thanks for the bracelet, tough guy.”

Saddened, Peter can only nod. “You’re welcome…”

“Hey,” Matt nudges him. “Don’t feel so sad, we still both live in New York, don’t we? Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

“Yeah, maybe.” But Peter still feels a little glum at having to leave the first person who actually understood him and wasn’t one of his siblings. He slides off the bench. “Bye-bye.”

“Bye, peter.”

Peter waves and forgets that Matt can’t really see it, but Matt smiles like he knows anyway. Aunt May takes his hand with her free one and they walk back into the cemetery. When he glances over his shoulder he sees Matt sitting alone on the bench, the people of New York moving around him without a care in the world. His head is tilted in their direction, and as they get further into the cemetery and Matt disappears from his view, Peter wonders if the older boy can still hear them.

“He was kinda pretty for a boy,” he hums, brows furrowed. “And he was really nice, Aunt May.” May looks at him with a startled expression. She seems to search his face for a moment before smiling gently.

“He was very cute, Peter.” It’s not entirely what he meant but he can’t say that she’s wrong. Peter’s always thought cute things were like...babies or tiny animals. Matt was just nice, and his red hair was cool. “You should be careful who you say those kinds of things to, however.”

Peter thinks he can see his Uncle in the distance, some twenty rows of headstones away. When she says that, in her gentle voice, he can’t help but ask: “What do you mean?”

Aunt May looks troubled for a moment, but it’s different from how she’s looked these past few weeks. Less dark and haunted, more… concerned. “Well, since Matthew is a boy… it’s not right, but there are people who are very mean to boys who compliment other boys.”

“Why? That’s dumb!” He’s always been under the impression that people  _ liked _ compliments! “Why is it so hard for people to be nice?”

May laughs, swinging their hands back and forth. “I don’t know Peter, I really don’t.” She looks at him again, and her eyes and hair are the wrong color and she’s not related to them by blood at all, but in that moment Peter feels comforted. Like a piece of his mom is still with him.

“Well, maybe I’m just jumping the gun. You’re still very young.” She hums.

“What!” He exclaims, shocked that she would say such a thing, “Aunt May, I’m a big boy!”


	4. black plague

“ _You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming._ ”

\- Pablo Neruda

* * *

_MARCH, 2016_

At 8:15pm Peter is on his way to Harry’s place. The car sent to pick him up is sleek, black, and probably more expensive than the entire complex Peter lives in. It comes with a driver included, one that calls him Mr. Parker and only speaks when spoken to. Peter takes a seat in the back because it feels weird to ride up front with someone he doesn’t know. This way Gwen isn’t left to hover alone in the backseat, not that she really cares. She could fly along on the roof of the car if she really wanted. They don’t speak, because making conversation with ghosts is generally frowned upon. He doesn’t actually like being seen as crazy in the eyes of the public. 

They drive in silence for another ten or so minutes, Peter watching the city that never sleeps as it passes by. He itches to capture some of the sights with his camera but he’d regrettably left it back home. New York City is ablaze with light and sound, citizens still out and about even as the moon rises higher in the sky. Harry’s home is enormous, a veritable mansion in comparison to the hovel in which Peter resides. His entire apartment is about the size of one of Harry’s bathrooms.

Peter hasn’t been here in a while, but the massive, victorian-style home is a hard sight to forget. All along the street reside what Peter calls “townhouse mansions”. They don’t look like the stereotypical rich person home, in fact most tourists would probably just assume it’s just one long building, going all the way down the street, of a bunch of little homes rather than three or four massive ones. He sincerely doesn’t know what he’d do with all that space. Doesn’t stop him from being a little jealous at times and he doesn’t even value money that much beyond its basic use of keeping him alive.

“Thanks,” he awkwardly tells the driver as he steps out of the car. The man wishes him a goodnight and drives away. Peter wonders if he should have tipped the man.

“Been awhile.” Gwen comments idly, eyeing the building before them. It has a vaguely gothic feel, with its dark, sloping spires and shingles, gray brick and ridiculously ornate door. The windows are even barred with metal intricately warped into vine and flower-like shapes. 

“Still smells like money,” Peter grunts, walking up the steps two at a time. “It’s making me sweat.”

Gwen rolls her eyes but follows, her movements silent.

When he reaches the top he forgoes the doorbell and instead uses the lion-shaped knocker, smacking it against the wood with far too much amusement. “Helloooo, someone order a pizza?”

The door swings open not a second later, as if Harry had been waiting for that very moment. “I did, it got here five minutes ago. Meat lovers, vegetable, and classic.”

“Ohhh,” Peter groans as he enters, “Tell me why we aren’t married again?”

“We’d never last a day and you know it.” Harry snorts, “Please don’t tell me your standards revolve around food.”

“I would, but I’d be lying.” 

They smile at each other for a moment before Harry shakes his head and steps in close, pulling Peter into a hug. Peter reciprocates after a second, smacking one of his closest friends softly on the back. They pull apart and Harry pats Peter’s shoulders before stepping away and moving off, clearly expecting Peter to follow. 

The place hasn’t changed much aside from the slightest signs of day-to-day living. The entryway opens into a wide area with a huge white marble staircase in the center. Hallways split off beside it, and the upper floor is open like a loft, or a hotel. Peter’s not entirely convinced this place _wasn’t_ some fancy hotel, actually. Just refurbished for a rich people nesting ground. The walls are pale green or slate gray with dark, geometric designs. Any furniture is dark wash wood that looks a hundred years old, with clawed feet and floral-style ornamentation in sterling silver. They pass one such table pressed against the wall, narrow with long legs. There’s a decorative bowl filled with a bunch of different key sets on top, along with a spread of unopened mail. A mirror perched on the wall above it offers Peter a glance at his eyebags and a wisp of hair sticking out above the rest. 

“How’s Gwen?” Harry asks, voice echoing in massive hall.

Peter glances at the blonde, who grins and waves a hand through Harry, making the man shiver and scowl two feet too far to the left.

“Tell him I’m fine, and that I finally caught up on Dance Moms.”

“A little to the right,” Peter smirks, “And she’s doing alright. Caught up on that dumb show.”

“ _Dance Moms_ is not dumb, Peter.” Harry says, “It teaches me how to be a good parent. All I need to do is the opposite of what _they_ do!”

Amused, Peter can only offer an expression of exasperation that contains a little too much fondness. “I’m sure Normie and Stanley appreciate it.”

“I’m sure they do,” Harry laughs, “Normie watched an episode with me the other day and told me after that he’s thankful _I’m_ his dad. I’ve never been so happy - all it took was scaring him with reality TV to see how good he has it.”

They keep moving, going down the hall to the left, past the stairs. Peter peers into the kitchen, which is also decked out in subtle greens complimenting by black. The color scheme is very _Slytherin,_ which is amusing, considering that Harry is the most _Hufflepuff_ person Peter has ever met. They step into the library, which is Peter’s favorite room in this entire place. Cushy couches in the center, surrounded by wall-to-wall shelves filled to the brim with thousands of texts, novels and tomes. Peter could spend hours in here, _has_ spent hours in here. 

It’s unfortunate that they’re not staying here, but proceeding to the right corner. It’s innocuous and unassuming, as it’s supposed to be. Harry pulls a dark red book and a deep, thunking click echoes from within the wall. A portion of the bookshelf disconnects from the wall and swings open slowly.

“Are the boys here?” Gwen asks, though it never makes it to Harry’s ears.

“Gwen wants to know if the boys are here,” Peter translates, “So do I, actually. Haven’t seen the little monsters in a while.”

“They should be asleep upstairs,” Harry swings the secret door shut once both he and Peter enter. “Though Normie has been rather rebellious about his bedtime lately. Liz is staying up in our room in case he wakes. Plus, there’s Stanley to consider. Both of them were quite mad they couldn’t see their Uncle Flash today. I think Stanley cried for an hour straight.”

 _It was better that they didn’t see him_ , Peter thinks but doesn’t say. A werewolf on a full moon wasn’t exactly pleasant company. Normie and Stanley were a bit too young to understand that whatever out-of-character behavior Flash showcased during this time was inconsequential and not a reflection of his actual character. 

“Ooo, guess we’ll surprise them at breakfast, then!” Gwen exclaims, looking delighted at a chance to see the boys again. Stanley is barely two, still young enough to see ghosts without thinking much of it. Peter knows that Harry can’t see spirits, though he’s sensitive to demonic energy, so he doesn’t know if either of Harry’s kids will have any kind of supernatural ability beyond that. Then again, Peter’s not sure if spiritual abilities are entirely hereditary, seeing as his own parents didn’t seem to possess anything of the sort. (And look how their kids turned out.)

For now though, Stanley’s pure white child’s soul allows him to breach the three planes of existence, as everyone was once capable of. Normie is six, also young enough to still see Gwen without problem. She hasn’t said anything, but Peter knows she dreads the day Normie grows beyond the ability to see ghosts - and hopes that he develops an ability allowing him to continue to do so. The two of them offer Gwen a relationship _beyond_ what she has with Peter.

There are times he thinks she must hate him. Those thoughts plague him more and more frequently as the years go by and she stays, chained to him and unable to move on. Her only company being him and whoever is able to see the dead. It’s unfortunate that the ability is not a common one beyond childhood - maybe then she’d have more than him and the tv for stimulation. 

The guilt tastes a lot like shame. 

“Gwen says it’ll be fun to surprise them at breakfast,” he echoes. Being her voice among friends is almost second-nature by now. They walk for about a minute down a pristine white hall, more modern than the rest of the house. It’s a little like entering an alternate dimension. 

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be delighted. You really should visit more.” It’s not quite a jab, but it hits like one. 

They reach a slim staircase leading down a floor to the basement. Every inch of it is reinforced with concrete and steel. When they reach the bottom Peter can see they aren’t alone. There’s a table laden with pizza and various drinks of the carbonated and alcoholic kind, surrounded by two worn, comfy black couches hiding quite a few food stains from their many “moon parties”. Mary Jane is sitting on one of them, brilliant red hair tied up in a bun and chewing her way through a slice of pizza while staring at the flat-screen TV on the wall. (Way to be extra, Harry.)

“Hey Tiger, Gwen,” she greets without looking away from what looks like an animated animal movie. “You’re lucky we’re only a few minutes into the movie.”

“Is that Zootopia?” he asks, squinting at the screen. “Really?”

“Thought it was in good taste,” MJ pauses the movie and finally looks at them, dimples visible in her smirk. “Talking animals and all.”

“I’m sure Flash finds it hilarious.” Harry drolls, trying to keep a straight face, “Though it does have the seal of approval from the boys. Liz took them to see it when it dropped in theaters.”

“Well, I haven’t seen it yet. Restart it.” Peter drops onto the couch beside her, eagerly collecting a plate to stack with a mountain of pizza slices.

“Ugh,” MJ rolls her eyes. “C’Mon, we’re like, five minutes in. You haven’t missed anything.”

He shares a glance with Gwen. “It’s not on-demand yet, so I haven’t seen it either.” She says. 

“Gwen wants you to restart it too, she hasn’t seen it.” Peter grins, lips shiny with pizza grease. “That’s two against one!”

Mary Jane squints her eyes at him, somewhere between glaring at him and analyzing the truthfulness of his words. Because she can’t hear Gwen, she has to take his word for it. Peter tries not to use that to his advantage too often… it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“Fine.” She mashes the rewind button on the remote and restarts the film with a little more aggression than necessary.

Peter makes a face at her, pitching his voice higher in a more imitation of her own. “Don’t be salty, it’s only five minutes.”

“Settle down, kids.” Gwen utters dryly.

“Funny,” Harry says, tone an echo of Gwen’s, “I could have sworn I put the kids to bed already.”

They settle on the couches, the fabric warm and worn. The furniture hasn’t changed since they started this, some eight years ago. It’s amazing that it’s been so long. Peter remembers coming over the first time, freshly twenty and madly in love with Gwen. Harry had moved out of his home with his father at eighteen, buying the place and roaming around all on his own for a year or so before _really_ befriending Peter and the rest. Another year and he was in on the big ‘secret’ with Flash, and had remodeled his basement to provide a place of safety for their friend.

Every month they’d grouped up, while Flash raged and paced not ten feet away in a room of solid stone and metal, thick enough to where they could barely hear his screaming howls. It was their way of showing silent support. While they couldn’t exactly go in and comfort him, they could be there in the morning when he lay there, sweating and shivering and overstimulated by the world. The task of putting him back to rights was one they figured out through trial and error. Flash bounced back well enough on his own, but blankets and cocoa and the warm atmosphere of a breakfast among friends didn’t do any harm. They’d formed their own little family and it was nice, for a bit. Peter’s twenty-second year of existence, however, was one of loss and tragedy and _life_.

They graduated. Peter made plans to go to Graduate school. Flash went off to the military. Normie was born. Many bad, awful things happened. Gwen died. Peter never went to Graduate school. When Peter was twenty-two his life began to shatter around him once more. 

It got better, little by little. Flash came home, no legs below the knees and a pack of wolves at his back. They started doing the monthly moon parties again, though some months Flash went off with his buddies. 

Then last year happened.

Peter is very tired.

These walls are familiar, slate gray and decorated with doodles held up with tape and photos of years gone by. He remembers laughing here, remembers crying and screaming, until he felt more like a wolf than Flash, clawing out of his own skin. He loves his friends, loves this room. It’s never felt right since Gwen, even as the years fly by. She’s a shadow, intangible and invisible to the others, who’ve had six years to grieve and heal and let her go. 

He feels her presence like a weight, like he’s atlas with the world on his shoulders. It’s not fair to her. It’s not fair that she’s here, suffering this half-life, and it’s not fair that he should ever wish for her to just be _gone._

He loves her. Maybe not the same way, maybe a little differently, or maybe he’s just kidding himself. He doesn’t want her to suffer any longer, doesn’t want her to become a part of his own suffering. But he’s a weak-willed man. He doesn’t know when to let go and even if he figured the when, he doesn’t know _how_. 

Twenty-two years since he accepted the fire bubbling under his skin and he still doesn’t know how to control it, or even what it _is_ . He crams another slice of pizza into his mouth and all he tastes is ashes and all he feels is guilt, that he should be allowed to taste anything at all while she exists with nothing. Beyond the sounds of Shakira singing and a determined Judy Hopps, Peter thinks he can hear the sounds of scratching and howling. They are safe here, protected by deliberately designed architecture from Flash’s barely-lucid form. Sometimes he’s more human than wolf, more _there_ than not, but the risk isn’t worth taking and Flash has always fully agreed. 

And yet Peter can’t really tell if the sounds of muted pain belong to his friend or to himself, can’t tell if it’s not just his own guilt screaming within his chest, begging to be heard. Perhaps it’s a little bit of both. Peter has never been able to see his own soul. He only learned of its purity from outside observation. He’s not sure he’d want to see it, if given the option. Because surely, though it may be pristine and spotless, it would be a tangled mess, fuzzy and uneven, ringing with desperation the way only crying souls can. 

What an ugly thing to see.

* * *

_FALL, 1998_

Peter loves school. What he doesn’t love are the people who go there, using it as time to fool around and scream their heads off while away from the watchful eyes of their parents. Unfortunately for Peter, that’s basically everyone else aside from him. There’s a quiet kid named Ryan who sits at the other end of class and while he doesn’t act up like the others he still picks his nose and pretends to be a dog during recess. Peter’s in sixth grade now and that kind of behavior wasn’t even cool during _elementary._

The past five years of living with his Aunt and Uncle were… different. But it steadily grew to be familiar, until he had a hard time remembering a lot about his old house, or what his parents sounded like. Every year they bundle up to visit their graves on the anniversary of their deaths, but now that Teresa is seven she has almost no memory of them and always acts up. Her favorite part of the experience is getting to go to the florist to pick out a bouquet for each parent. 

She’s a little spoiled, being the youngest and the only girl. Since Peter and Ben are responsible eleven-year-old's and Kaine is a rough-and-tumble terrible ten, they’re the ones who have to pick up after her. It irks Peter sometimes, because by now she should at least grasp how to throw away her own trash, but he can’t stay mad at her. She _is_ his little sister, and she does look up to him. Plus, he’s pretty sure Aunt May and Uncle Ben let her get away with stuff sometimes because they feel bad that she doesn’t have any memories of their parents. 

She doesn’t have any memory of that night, when Peter had clutched her close and burned a demon out of their mother’s body. Thinking about it now, he’s glad she doesn’t have to remember that. _He_ doesn’t want to. 

The bad ghosts don’t bother them. No demon has wandered into their lives again. Still, Peter doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop having nightmares, even as they become more convoluted with time, until he can’t always remember what was real and what’s just part of his dream.

Peter is eleven now and he’s stopped crying loud enough at night to attract his Aunt’s attention. He’s hoping that one day, if he ignores it hard enough, the pain will just disappear entirely. It hasn’t happened yet even after five years, but he’s cautiously optimistic. 

Peter goes to therapy every thursday after school. He sees Ms. Jody, who tells him to accept his pain as a way to heal. She wants him to talk about his feelings and all that mushy stuff, but Peter doesn’t really care to. He barely knows _what_ he’s feeling half the time, a lot of it just feels like TV static and aggravation. The whole ‘ignore it until it goes away’ tactic is one she would heavily disapprove of. Which is exactly why he barely speaks about his feelings and instead rambles about the Shuttle-Mir Program and the possibility of space and time being one in the same. She nods a lot while he talks but looks at him the way Aunt May does when he tries to explain the hypothetical multiverse theory. Which means she doesn’t really understand but pretends to. Well, Aunt May doesn’t pretend to, just pinches his cheeks and compliments his intelligence. Ms. Jody just listens because she’s paid to, he could say whatever he wanted and she’d have to listen. 

Peter’s not sure what Ben talks about, or even Kaine for that matter, and Aunt May told him he can’t ask. It’s private. He can’t believe they’d really talk about anything important, but he does what she says and never asks. His favorite part of the whole experience is taking a piece of candy at the end. They’re individually wrapped and held in a bowl at the front desk, coming in shapes that remind Peter of fruits or flowers. He always goes for the orange one that’s spherical with little grooves in it, because it tastes like an extra tangy, artificial version of the fruit with the same name.

The little candy lasts about fifteen minutes and makes his teeth feel sticky. Sometimes when it gets small enough he bites down, crushing it down and getting little pieces stuck in the gaps of his teeth. He brushes them extra long on those days. 

Kids are really mean. The Parker boys don’t talk about the fact that they see therapists. If their fellow students knew… Peter’s pretty sure they’d twist it into something to be ashamed of. It doesn’t help that Peter doesn’t even have friends beyond his brother, and unfortunately Ben isn’t in Peter’s homeroom this time around or half his classes. 

Peter loves school.

But maybe that’s not as true as he believes - the learning, that’s what he loves. Not the place or the people, but what it stands for. 

“Alright kids, today we’re learning about fractions!” Mr. Massey exclaims. He’s Peter’s mathematics teacher, a portly man of about thirty who wears a suit that looks a size too big and has already started balding. Peter likes him well enough so far, Mr. Massey is pretty nice and seems to enjoy teaching. The only problem is that Peter is far beyond his classmates to the point where what they learn throughout the day bores him out of his mind.

The kids around him groan, not holding the same appreciation for math as he and Mr. Massey do. Peter can hear two boys whispering to each other in the back, and the girl in the seat next to him as been doodling what looks like a unicorn for the past five minutes. 

Peter looks at the board, watching Mr. Massey putter around and mark out examples in chalk. He wonders if Mr. Massey ever gets bothered by the amount of chalk dust that ends up transferred to his sleeves. It’s probably not good to write while wearing a dark suit. Sure enough, within the next half hour Peter can clearly see chalk smears around the wrist of Mr. Massey’s suit. He doesn’t know if chalk stains.

“Can anyone answer this?” Mr. Massey looks around, somehow keeping a positive attitude in the face of half-awake eleven-year-old's. “No volunteers? Then…. Peter! Would you like to try?”

Peter pushes his glasses up a little and glances at the problem. Without much hesitation he answers, “Four.”

Mr. Massey looks suitably delighted. Since Mr. Massey is a pretty okay guy, Peter will let the man believe he’d actually taught Peter something. Math class continues, irritatingly easy and mind numbing. Peter finishes the homework during lunch and still has time to eat. It’s not like he has any friends to talk with, so doing his work helps pass the time. 

Recess isn’t that much better. Peter wishes he could go inside and read in one of the open classrooms but kids aren’t allowed to reenter until class resumes except to use the bathroom so teachers can keep an eye on them all. So he sits on one of the benches instead, alone and ignored by other students. If Ben were in his lunch block it would be another story entirely - but it’s just him… and the occasional ghost that wanders in. One such ghost is the recently passed father of one of Peter’s classmates, he’s pretty sure her name is Shelly. He saw her dad’s picture in the paper a month or so ago, the man had been hit by a drunk driver.

While at school, Peter pretends he doesn’t see anything. Ghosts sometimes hover a little too closely, attracted to him for some reason or another, but he’s found it easier to ignore them as he gets older. Of course, sometimes he trips up and doesn’t notice a person is, in fact, a ghost. It hasn’t happened in a few weeks though and he’d like to keep it that way. Not everyone believes in ghosts so they certainly wouldn’t believe him if he said he was talking to one, they’d just call him crazy. Peter’s not looking to be known as _crazy_ , even if he doesn’t much care what the other kids say about him.

Shelly’s dad is easy to ignore like the others even if Peter doesn’t feel great about doing so. If he were nicer he’d offer to pass on a message. Maybe it’s not even about being nice, maybe he’s just scared. He hates thinking about it, or admitting he could be scared of something as simple as that when he’s faced a literal monster from hell. 

_If_ Hell existed. For all he knew they were monsters from another dimension, or aggressive forms of energy. The universe was limitless in its possibilities. Something labeled as _supernatural_ might not actually be so, it could just be a word for anything we don’t quite understand yet.

“Hey.”

Peter looks up, mildly aggravated that his reading time is being interrupted. It’s an older kid, one who looks like he’s in the final years of high school, or even out of it. He’s got sandy blond hair, dark blue eyes and a dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. For some reason he looks vaguely familiar, though Peter struggles to place him. The familiarity, however, is overshadowed by the sheer discomfort Peter feels at seeing just how dark the aura around the older boy is.

“....hi?” That aside, the guy is way too old to be in middle school.

“I noticed you were all alone out here, is everything alright?” the guy asks, and the kindness in his voice doesn’t match the look of his aura. He seems aware of Peter’s hesitation. “I’m Steven Westcott, Mr. O’Doherty’s TA -- but feel free to call me Skip!” 

_Oh,_ so Peter’s probably seen him in the halls than. That settles some of his worries. The look of Skip’s aura is still odd and unsettling, but what does Peter _really_ know about it all? _Probably a lot more than I realize,_ Peter thinks to himself, deciding not to let his guard down.

“Uh, I’m fine.” he says, conjuring up something of a smile.

“Not interested in playing with the others?” Skip looks mildly sympathetic, like he relates to Peter’s plight. “That’s cool too, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting bullied or anything.”

“I’m not,” Peter affirms, though he’s not exactly _not_ being bullied. He pushes his glasses up his nose with a finger. “Just not interested, like you said. I prefer reading.”

Skip looks interested, settling beside Peter on the bench, “Oh? What’re you reading?”

“... _QED: The Strange Theory of Light and Matter._ ” Peter’s actually on the second lecture in the book, the one about Quantum Behavior. He likes the way Feynman writes, it isn’t tedious to translate like some of the other books on the subject are.

“Wow!” Skip actually sounds impressed. “You must be a real genius, huh? That’s incredible!”

Peter feels his cheeks flush at the sudden praise, unused to his efforts being praised by anyone but his Aunt and Uncle. “It’s just interesting to me…”

Skip makes an _oooh_ sound, “You really understand that stuff?”

“Yeah, it’s not too difficult once you memorize the basics.” And have a knack for intensive mathematics. 

“Have you thought about skipping grades?” The TA questions, “That stuff you’re reading there is pretty high-level. I’m in college right now and I don’t think I could tell you anything about the Theory of Matter.”

“Light and Matter,” Peter corrects absently, “I’ve never really thought about it.”

Skip smiles and it’s a bright, secret thing. Peter doesn’t understand it, but he smiles back tentatively, wondering.

* * *

Peter sees Skip a lot more. The TA is great with the students, always wearing a grin and offering a hand. No matter when Peter sees the other man, he’s being helpful and nice, the exact opposite of a person who usually has a near-black aura. It makes Peter nervous sometimes when he focuses too heavily on it. Brings back memories of a time he’d rather not relive. But if he does his best to ignore it, to focus more on the brightness of the older boy’s smile and the ease of his conversation, Peter can get by.

“Study hall?” The blond inquires, passing by Peter in the library. There’s a gaggle of middle school girls following him around and vying for his attention. They stare daggers at Peter when Skip speaks.

“Yeah,” Peter murmurs, glancing away. Girls are scary.

“You work really hard, Einstein.” It’s said in a tone Peter’s head before. Pride, maybe. It feels weird to think that Skip would be proud of Peter. Not a bad weird, however.

Peter shrugs. “I guess.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Skip says, clapping his hand on Peter’s shoulder as he passes. “Maybe you can help me with _my_ homework sometime, ha!”

The girls follow along, still glaring at Peter like it’s his fault their vapid conversations aren’t interesting enough to garner the same amount of attention Peter is receiving. It’s not even like he _wants_ the attention. Skip is just being nice, he probably pities Peter for having no friends.

* * *

“So this goes here?” Skip scratches at his hairline with a pencil, a look of concentration on his face. They’re at the public library, tucked away in one of the numerous study areas. Their meeting had been purely coincidental, Peter came with his siblings to do some work until Aunt May came home from her nursing job. Skip had shown up just a few minutes later and, upon spotting Peter, had made himself at home in the seat across from him. 

How it ended up with Peter tutoring the man in calculus was beyond him. He didn’t hate it though. Teaching was actually kind of...fun. The problem would be the courses he’d be required to take if he tried to become one - Peter had no interest in Language Arts and, while he did pretty well in class because of his above average reading level, it bored him to tears. In Skip’s case, he was trying to become a Language Arts teacher and was struggling immensely with the required math and science courses.

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, checking over the problem once more. They’d ended up on the same side of the table, elbows almost brushing. The sun was starting to get low, casting warm, bright light through the windows just a few feet away. Skip had moved to Peter’s side about twenty minutes ago, claiming the sun was starting to get in his eyes and disrupted his concentration. 

Peter enjoys the atmosphere of the library at near sunset, when the shadows are long but the air is warm and awash with yellow hues. It makes the huge rows of seemingly endless books feel _magical_. 

“You’re doing pretty well for someone who says he doesn’t understand complex equations.” Peter comments, tapping his pencil against the table gently.

Skip grins with enough force to put the sunlight to shame, “I have a good teacher.” Then he nudges Peter, “It’s you, by the way. You’re the good teacher.”

“Thanks, I got it.” Peter feels his cheeks flush again, secretly flattered by the praise. He wonders if this is why people actually have friends - to feel this warmth in their chests. There’s a bit of an age gap between them, but Peter has always felt more mature than his peers. Maybe hanging out with older, smarter people was just what he needed.

“Ahhhh, wait, I think I messed up…”

Well, maybe not _smarter._

“Peter?” His Aunt stands just a few feet away, Teresa clinging to her hand. Peter catches a glimpse of Ben wrangling Kaine down the aisle just behind her. “Ready to go?”

Skip blinks, glancing at his Aunt for a moment before rising eagerly, a charming grin plastered to his face. “Oh! Sorry, you must be Peter and Ben’s Aunt! I’m Skip Westcott, a TA at their school.”

“Oh, hello!” Aunt May responds, shaking the hand Skip offers with faint bewilderment. “Yes, that’s me! I hope they’re doing well in their classes…?”

“Oh, certainly, Peter here is a whiz with the sciences. I don’t see Ben that much but I know Mr. Massey sings them equal praises, so I have no doubt he’s just as smart as the little Einstein here.” Skip tosses a thumb in Peter’s vague direction, talking with his hands. “I was struggling with some of my own work and he just came along and helped me out.”

Peter distinctly remembers that it was Skip who approached him, but doesn’t find it important enough to point out. Gathering up his things, Peter zips his bag and slings it over his shoulder after sliding on his thick winter jacket. The weather has been getting chillier lately, it even snowed just last week, though it didn’t stick. A few inches are expected over the weekend and Teresa and Kaine are excited at the prospect of both a snow day and the opportunity to build snowmen. Neither of them have much artistic talent, so the snowmen will probably be wildly deformed.

“I hope you can figure out the rest on your own.” he says, stepping by the man and wiggling his fingers into the new gloves Aunt May had gotten him just last week. He’d grown out of the ones he’d used last winter and unfortunately Kaine was around the same size as Peter and Ben, so the youngest brother couldn’t use them as hand-me-downs. Teresa might be able to, but Aunt May and Uncle Ben seemed inclined to donate all their old clothes to charities.

The blond claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Oh, definitely, thanks again!” To May, Skip offers another smile. Peter can’t help but notice how the dark aura around Skip seems to wriggle. “He’s really going places, you must be very proud.”

“We are,” Aunt May replies, looking down at Peter softly. He glances away, cheeks red. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Westcott.”

“Oh!” he laughs, “Mr. Westcott sounds so _official_. Please, call me Skip. I’m still a few years from my teaching degree.”

They part ways and Peter feels a little bit lighter, like maybe he’s finally made a real friend. 

* * *

_WINTER, 1998_

There isn’t much space in Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s house. They’d never expected children and their living arrangements reflected that. Aunt May worked as a nurse and Uncle Ben was a retired military policeman turned salesman. Both of them spent time volunteering at various shelters whenever they could. The salaries they earned were all well and fine for supporting two people, but growing children on top of that? Through it all, neither of them complained, but Peter knows they’re struggling. They pinch pennies wherever they can. Peter and his siblings are told to never be wasteful and to always appreciate what they have. 

Peter and Ben have to grow up fast, even though their Aunt and Uncle are trying as hard as they can to give them all the childhood they deserve. Most nights it’s one of the twins putting their younger siblings to bed, or making sure the dishes are done. Since homework is exceedingly basic and easy, Peter and Ben have a lot of time on their hands to do the household chores. He doesn’t enjoy it, but making Aunt May or Uncle Ben work even more than they already are seems cruel. 

They don’t have the money to move, not then and not now, so the four Parker children are crammed in a house never meant for so many bodies. It’s cluttered and agonizing, but they make it work. Uncle Ben turned his old office into a room for Teresa, while Peter, Ben and Kaine have to share one. Teresa’s room is smaller and she’s a girl, so Peter thinks it’s pretty fair. Besides, he’s not too concerned about space in his bedroom when he only uses it to sleep. He can read and do homework in the living room. His Aunt and Uncle work long hours so it’s not like he’ll be disrupted often. 

It’s on one such night, when Uncle Ben is working late and everyone in the house is already asleep, that Peter is woken by screaming. The three Parker boys, crammed in a room meant for one, share a twin bunk and a single twin bed between them. Ben and Peter take the bunk, alternating top and bottom whenever they feel like doing so. Tonight Peter is on the top bunk, the decision made with a game of rock-paper-scissors. Kaine slumbers on the twin bed pressed against the opposite wall. Living in close quarters seems to amplify sound and many arguments have started because of one of the brothers making a little too much noise.

A scream is a lot more than the persistent whisper of turning pages. 

Jerking awake, Peter nearly smacks his head on the ceiling as he shoots into a sitting position. His sheets, decorated in little cartoon atoms, pool in his lap. 

“What the-” Kaine groans, voice thick with sleep. Peter peers over the edge of his bed, seeing his youngest brother rubbing at his eyes and slipping out of bed. “Ben?”

Peter pushes his sheets aside and makes his way down the ladder, footsteps heavy. He still feels a bit dazed with sleep. Ben is writhing in his sheets, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. His mouth is open with a now soundless scream, eyes glittering and visible even in the dark. They stare, unseeing, directly upwards. Peter swallows, his stomach sinking at the sight. The last time he’d seen Ben’s eyes shine like that, it had been the night their parents had died.

“Ben,” he whispers, pushing at his brother’s shoulder in hopes that it will snap his twin out of whatever trance he’s in. “Hey, wake up.”

Kaine hovers beside him, brow furrowed and face uncharacteristically stern. Peter wonders if he’s remembering that night too, if Kaine also feels the icy hand of fear gripping his spine.

Ben’s lavender aura writhes, glowing a deep royal purple by his head. It contrasts sharply with the eerie gold of his eyes. He begins heaving, his skinny legs kicking out and tangling in the sheets. Startled, Peter thrusts and arm out across Kaine’s chest, pushing them both back a few feet. His youngest brother gives him a sour look.

“Quit it,” Kaine mutters, shoving Peter’s arm aside. He lets it drop without much fight.

The door opens and Aunt May appears, a frantic expression on her face. Her robe is untied and hanging off her shoulders, like she’d thrown it on as an afterthought. “What’s going on?” she exclaims, “Are you boys okay?”

At that moment, Ben lets out another yell. Gasping, Aunt May pushes her way between Peter and Kaine, peering down at Ben. “Oh, honey…”

Kaine lingers awkwardly in the back, briefly meeting Peter’s eyes. Nightmares aren’t exactly uncommon between them, but Peter is pretty sure this _isn’t_ one. It’s another one of Ben’s future-telling dreams. In the past five years, Ben and Peter have had many talks about the ability the younger twin had spontaneously acquired. 

Ben dreams, as everyone else does, but sometimes his dreams come true. Usually he sleeps easily through the night, every so often waking. Most nights he doesn’t have any precognitive episodes, sometimes going weeks without one occurring. On occasion, if he speaks about it, it doesn’t happen. He’d once told Kaine not to worry about a test because he’d seen Kaine ace it. In turn, Kaine hadn’t studied at all and bombed it. There was a fine line between what is and isn’t okay to alter, and Ben still struggles to figure that out. Luckily, his dreams haven’t been too serious, or at least he hasn’t told Peter any different. It’s usually as minor as their Uncle picking up a penny at work and has only ever been major once, on the night their parents had died.

Peter has never seen a reaction as violent as the one currently taking place, not since then. It makes him nervous, and seeing his brother move like he’s in agony isn’t making it any better.

“Oh, Ben,” May sighs, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Wake up, honey, it’s just a nightmare.”

Peter and Kaine exchange another glance. They don’t usually see eye to eye, but in this case they’re a united front. To their understanding, Aunt May and Uncle Ben don’t believe that ghosts and monsters are real, so it’s just the three of them: Peter, Ben and Kaine. Teresa too, but she didn’t have memories of that night. She didn’t yet understand just how serious the situation was - or how dangerous the world around them can be, so populated with ghosts and demons as it is. 

Ben shakes and cries out for a little longer before jerking into awareness. May soothes him softly, pulling him into her arms. He gasps like he’s been drowning, eyes wild and hands clutching her back, bunching the fabric of her robe between his fingers. 

“Don’t go to school tomorrow,” he manages to blurt out, staring Peter directly in the eye. “Don’t go, Peter.”

Peter tenses and Kaine eyes him warily. There’s an ounce of concern in his expression.

“What do you mean?” May pulls back a little to get a look at Ben’s face. “Why can’t he go to school?”

Ben shakes is head frantically, refusing to answer. He keeps shaking his head even as Aunt May prods him a bit more, voice gentle and concerned. No matter what she says, Ben doesn’t say another word in response.

Eventually, when Kaine and Peter have gotten back into their beds at the request of their Aunt, Ben falls back asleep, exhausted from his episode. Aunt May sits beside him, running a hand through his hair as he slumbers. Peter doesn’t sleep, even though Kaine has slipped off already, if the deep, heavy breathing is any indication. Instead, he stares at the ceiling, unable to shake the dread Ben’s words had kicked up. 

It’s another few minutes before Aunt May rises, the bed creaking slightly at the shift in weight. Peter turns on his side and peers through the safety bar saving him from a potential tumble. His Aunt is paused in the doorway, her robe now tightly wrapped around her and a hand by her mouth. She looks tired and contemplative, a heavy furrow present in her brow. It’s been awhile since one of them had a ‘nightmare’ loud enough to summon her to their room. He hates worrying her, especially so late at night. Not that he’d blame his brother, of course.

Aunt May shifts on her feet and lets out a breath he barely hears before turning away, tugging the door shut near-silently behind her. Rolling back to face the ceiling, Peter scrubs a hand down his face. He’s not one to miss school - he currently has perfect attendance - but he trusts his brother, and he believes that the premonitions are real. So he resolves to skip school the next day, even if he has to sneak away after being dropped off by Aunt May. He’s already memorized the route from school back to the house, so if he makes sure to take a few dollars he can ride the train back, hopefully without drawing too much attention. Then he can wait until school ends and meet his siblings back at the library - no, maybe not. Kaine and Teresa probably wouldn’t be able to keep their mouths shut if he didn’t pick them up with Ben. He’ll have to find his way back to the middle school to meet up with Ben right when class lets out…

* * *

It turns out the plan was for nought, as Aunt May walks into their room in the morning and announces that they’re going to take a day to themselves. She’d called out from work and a friend of hers picked up the shift. Peter feels terrible, because she’s taking a day off to watch _them_ instead of saving it for a time when she might be sick. 

Teresa, who has no idea what’s happening, is ecstatic at having an extra free day. She claims the TV and spends a half-hour arguing with Kaine on what to watch until it escalates to the point where Aunt May has to intervene. 

Ben stays silent the whole day.

Peter has never been on the receiving end of Ben’s silences. Being twins, they have a connection beyond just being siblings - beyond what they have with Kaine or Teresa. Ben is Peter’s best friend, the one he turns to when he needs help. It hurts that he can’t be the same for his brother, who merely stares blankly at their food during breakfast and then leaves the table without eating much.

“Must have been some nightmare…” Aunt May comments, wiping down the table with more vigor than necessary. They both watch Ben quietly make his way up the stairs. Peter plops his spoon into his bowl of soggy cereal, milk sloshing to the rim. His own stomach feels like it’s twisted in knots.

“Has he said anything?” she presses, blowing an errant strand of hair out of her face. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

Peter swirls the milk-logged cereal bits around, frowning heavily. “Yeah… but he hasn’t told me anything. I think it was just a nightmare.”

Aunt May sighs. She looks even more tired than she had last night, hair still messy with sleep and flannel pajamas rumpled. Uncle Ben is presumably still sleeping upstairs. Peter wonders if she’d stayed up until he’d come home. He wants to say sorry, the words just on the tip of his tongue - but he never does, just scoops up a spoonful of bland, soggy cereal and swallows it down.

Teresa patters up, tugging on his sleeve. “Peter?”

“Yeah?” he replies, holding back a sigh. She’s got a wide-eyed look on her that he recognizes.

“Kaine won’t let me borrow his Game Boy, can I use yours?” she asks.

As much as he loves his little sister, he doesn’t really trust her to use his Game Boy without breaking it. Not that she would - on purpose. They can’t afford to buy a new one, even if he asked for Christmas. Still… since they’re staying home for the day and it isn’t the weekend, there isn’t much they can do. Teresa stares at him silently with her big hazel-green eyes. The longer he meets her eyes the harder it becomes to say no.

He crumbles. “Ok--”

“Yes!” she exclaims, hopping in place. “I wanna play Pokemon!”

“No.” He shoots her down immediately.

Teresa frowns, “Why not? I wanna!”

“I haven’t gotten around to finishing it yet, so I don’t want you to mess up my progress.” He explains, slipping from the dining room table. Under the watchful eye of his Aunt he drains the remaining milk into the sink and leaves the bowl in the dishwasher. “You can play my Zelda game.”

Teresa starts jumping in place again, following him as he moves around the kitchen. “Link! Link! Link!” She crows, a smile back on her face.

“Yeah, yeah.” He grins at her excitement, feeling a little better in the face of her innocence. “Wait here, I’ll grab it for you.”

He makes his way up the stairs, hand trailing along the railing. They creak heavily under his weight, the house older than the one his parents had owned. There’s no rug at the top of the stairs, just worn hardwood. Since Teresa’s room used to be an office, her room is downstairs. That’s likely the reason she wasn’t woken by the commotion last night, and no one really considers filling her in. There’s only three rooms up here, a bathroom, Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s room, and the bedroom that Peter and his brothers share. Peter does his best to tip-toe by his Aunt and Uncle’s room, as Uncle Ben is still sleeping. He makes sure to avoid the super creaky part in the middle of the hall where the floor whines so loudly when you put weight on it, you'd think it was breaking.

“Ben?” Peter whispers as he opens the door to their room. The walls aren’t super thin but they aren’t exactly well-insulated either. His brother is laying in the bottom bunk, back to the door and blankets pulled up around him. He looks up when Peter comes in, a book in his grip -- _Rules for Planetary Pictures_. 

“You know we’re Leos, right?” he says, sitting up and running a finger over whichever page he’s reading. “The lion.”

The room is bright despite all the lamps being off. Through the open curtains of the room’s single window shines the sun, dust dancing in the light. Peter steps in, closing the door softly behind him. He hasn’t forgotten his sister, who waits downstairs for him to return with the Game Boy, but listening to his brother finally speak is more important. “Yeah,” he replies, even though the question isn’t one requiring an answer.

“Lions are symbols of bravery. They’re majestic, beautiful creatures with power and esteem… they draw the eye of everyone. Like a _star_.” Ben looks back down at his book. “While we’re all made of star-stuff, us leos… we sparkle. We _shine_. For you and me, it’s a bit more literal.” 

Peter doesn’t move from his spot just inside the room, wondering where his brother is going with his dreamy words.

“We’re like lions, Peter. Made for greatness, and that greatness draws attention.” The purple gradient around Ben shivers. “Not all attention is good.”

“I know.” He does. The ghosts and the demon are proof of that.

Ben frowns, and the shadows cast by the natural light and the slope of his features make him look older than he is. “You don’t. I think you believe you know more than you really do.”

Now it’s Peter who’s frowning. “What’s this about?”

“Peter,” Ben sighs and it’s a heavy, furious thing. “Do you ever wonder how we’re made? How the remnants of exploding stars and the ashes of the cosmos shape our existence? What does it mean to be otherworldly, to be assumed as natural?” He moves his grip on the book, shifting it to one hand. The other he raises up in front of him, peering at the shape and shift of delicate bones under skin. “Men are not made equal, not every star shines as brightly. We’re lions made of stars, of collapsed galaxies and asteroid dust. We think we’re so strong when we’re not, because the rats at our feet are just _waiting_ for us to stumble, so they can steal bits of our shine for themselves.”

“I’m not going to stumble, Ben.” He can’t afford to. “If there are any rats at my feet, I’ll shine so brightly they ignite and turn to smoke.”

“Rats spread disease, Peter. If you aren’t watching out for them they’ll sink their teeth into you. It’ll just take one bite.” Ben drops his hand, looking Peter directly in the eye. The air feels supercharged between them. “Even rats can fell a lion.”

“What did you see?” Peter wonders aloud. _What has you so scared?_

Ben shifts until he’s lying back on his side, sliding the blankets higher up on his body. “I saw the rat who bit the lion.”


	5. the drowned man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! : allusion to child sexual assault near the end of the chapter! (non-graphic)

" _Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty._ "

\- Ghandi

* * *

The next day they go to school. It’s a friday, so the classes are pretty lax and they have the weekend to look forward to. Peter isn’t sure what to feel as he waves goodbye to Aunt May as she drives away to drop Kaine and Teresa off at Elementary. Ben stays close to his side, eyes shifting around like he’s expecting someone to jump out and spook them. They don’t share that many classes, so Ben can’t hover the whole day like he wants to.

“Watch out for anything,” he says as he walks to his first class, and Peter can only watch as he goes, wondering exactly who Ben considers possible rats. Ghosts and demons, certainly. But what else is there? Peter doesn’t think any other monster exists. 

The halls are crammed with students, the heaters running full blast and making him sweat in his thick winter coat. He manages to make his way to his locker with time to spare, only getting shoulder checked twice. It’s a relief to take the jacket off, the sweat building on the back of his neck immediately cooling as a blast of cold air swirls by, someone having opened the door at the end of the hall. He shoves it into his locker without much finesse and hikes his bag up onto his shoulders. 

As warm as the building is, everything feels a little colder during wintertime. He’s got a deep blue sweater on over his Power Rangers t-shirt to keep him comfortable. The problem of body heat is easily solved, but the other issues that winter brings are just beginning. The days are shorter, the nights darker and the frigid air seems, at times,  _ sinister  _ in nature. 

A fist smacks gently against his locker, “Peter!”

He startles, glasses sliding down his nose. “Oh, Skip. You startled me.”

The older boy stands a little too close, but that can be blamed on the crowds moving around them. He peers down at Peter with a wide smile and glittering eyes, near-black aura a stain among the white and gray surrounding them.

“Missed you at recess the other day.” The TA says, casually leaning against the locker beside Peter’s. A few girls giggle and wave at Skip, hoping to catch his eye. He doesn’t turn away from Peter. “What’s up? Weren’t feeling so good?”

Peter clears his throat, “No, I…wasn’t.”

“Ben, too?” Skip asks, looking concerned. 

“It was a 24 hour thing, ya know?” Peter laughs, high and nervous. “But we feel much better now.”

“That’s good, I’m glad.” Skip ruffles Peter’s hair, dislodging his glasses even more. “It wasn’t the same without you here.”

Peter smiles tentatively in return, “Thanks… I think.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and hopes his hair isn’t too messed up. Shifting on his feet, he takes a quick glance around as the halls begin to clear. “Um, I have to get to class now, so…”

Skip straightens up, pulling away from the locker. “Yeah, of course! I’m sure I’ll catch you later.”

Peter nods, shrugging his backpack higher up on his shoulders and heading off to class. When he peeks behind him, he sees Skip still by his locker, watching. For a moment it feels like how it was when he first saw the older boy - all he can focus on is the dark, putrid color of Skip’s aura. This time the smile does nothing to take away from it.

He sits in class and whatever they say goes in one ear and out the other. Not that it technically matters, seeing as he knows everything the teachers are attempting to teach. The only class he really should pay attention to is Language Arts, but that’s almost impossible even on a good day. There’s a sense of dismay looming over him like a physical presence. He almost expects to see someone when he glances over his shoulder, but there’s no one there but Tom, who’s doodling on his paper instead of listening to the teacher. (Not that Peter is, either.)

Mindlessly, he scrawls a few notes about his soul and multi-verse theories across the paper he should be writing history notes on. (Another subject he isn’t super invested in.) At least this way it almost looks like he’s paying attention. 

He’s been thinking a lot lately about souls. A part of him wonders if the auras he sees aren’t just that - a reflection of the human soul. There’s plenty of theories and speculation on ‘blackened souls’ belonging to bad people, and about how the good had pure white ones. It was old as time - or as old as most religions. He considers Christianity, with its angel and demon obsession. It’s not far-fetched to say that, since demons exist,  _ angels  _ might as well. Of course, that seems ridiculous to him - when he considers it in a strictly religious capacity. The ideas he’s been toying with mainly have to do with energy. 

Radiation has the potential to give off visible light, keyword  _ visible _ . The human eye can only perceive the colors that make up the rainbow we know. Plenty of animals see even more, or less, and humans are aware that there’s a spectrum of color beyond what they can make out. Light, color, radiation - at times it makes Peter’s head spin, but in a good way. He likes the challenge of figuring it out. 

Maybe every person  _ does  _ give off a light, because the body creates and burns tons of energy, and it’s just not naturally visible to the human race. Peter could have a mutation in the cones and rods within his retina. Who’s to say  _ what  _ factors determine the color of your aura - or soul. (He’s gonna stick with soul.) It’s been proven that chemicals control mood, or play a huge role in them, so maybe it really  _ is  _ accurate to say that the darker your soul the worse of a person you are. There’s also the stereotype of black being a color for evil and white for good -- when science didn’t follow anyone’s preconceptions, it paved its own path of sheer fact and it could be the exact opposite for a soul. White for bad, black for good. 

He scraps that idea shortly after, scribbling it out with his pencil, eraser long since worn away. It wouldn’t make sense for it to be reversed like that when babies and children all have white souls. Age isn’t much of a factor either, seeing as the adults in his life have pretty light shades of gray and there are younger people exuding much darker ones.  _ Like Skip. _ Then there’s the souls with color. Ben with his lavender to royal purple gradient, Teresa with her soft pink and Kaine, who has the oddest splash of beige across his chest like a coffee spill. He distantly remembers a boy on a bench with a name that began with M and a splash of crimson across his head, like fake blood and cardinal feathers. The face is long since blurred by time, but Peter knows there are other people out there with colors. It’s not just his siblings.

(He wonders if he has a color, and why he can’t see his own soul.)

What those colors mean,  _ exactly _ , is impossible to figure out. Ben and Teresa are both solid colors - Ben’s gradient aside - meaning they don’t have a smidge of the grayscale everyone else does. Just purple and pink. Meanwhile, Kaine is child-white with a dash of color, like the red boy. 

A potential theory is that the colors correspond with an ability beyond human norm, or a  _ Sixth Sense _ . For example, Ben only sees when the creatures are strong, like the one who’d scratched him all those years ago, but he sure feels them. He can’t see the hovering spirit with the hand marks around her neck that hangs around the library, but he refuses to go anywhere near her and always acts increasingly paranoid when she approaches, even as his eyes pass over her unseeingly. (Peter doesn’t think she’s so bad, a little lonely, maybe. She’s not as scary as other ghosts, or as bloody.)

Kaine doesn’t talk about his own experiences too often - which, if Peter remembers what his therapist always said, is an unhealthy coping mechanism called ‘bottling it all up’. Not great. But from what Peter  _ can  _ glean via observation, his brother is steadily losing his ability to see the spirits around them. At ten, Kaine is  _ just _ edging into the age range where Peter has noted most kids without an ability like Ben’s or his own begin to lose their ‘purity vision’. It’s generally another two or three years before their soul starts to get gradients of gray, but the ability to see spirits definitely disappears as they enter the pre-teen stage. Peter won’t be surprised if Kaine loses the ability entirely, those lines between the three planes of existence finally cementing into place, like a door with the key thrown away. 

It’ll be another few years before Peter can confirm that - and in turn get his answer on whether or not a color on the soul gives you a  _ Sixth Sense. _ If Kaine doesn’t lose the ability entirely, then it’s confirmed. The coffee splash on his chest will  _ have _ to mean something. Granted, it’s merely a splash, unlike Ben and Teresa’s full color, so it could have an entirely different meaning. 

Death is also a big unknown, has always been and likely always will be. The energy a body gave off could linger and take time to disperse, leaving ghosts. They were desaturated and translucent, sure, but some of them had color too. He’s seen a ghost lady who was all yellow just last week. The dead heavily outnumber the living, so he’s seen more ghosts with colors than live people - and they were full-colors. Very, very few seem to have partial streaks.

Considering this, Peter writes a note beside Kaine’s name, excluding him from the full-color group. ‘M’ is written just below, in place of the forgotten red boy’s name. If he continues with that train of thought, he can separate people (humans) into three groups. Grayscale, full-color, and partial color. Those can be further broken down into subcategories.

On a new page, Peter writes out ‘ _ Grays _ ’ in big, bold letters. After underlining it, he writes ‘Pure’ and ‘Tainted’ in slightly smaller type. Pretty self-explanatory.  _ Pures _ are those with white souls - so, children, as he’s yet to meet anyone over, like,  _ thirteen _ with a pure white soul.  _ Tainted  _ will be those with a dark gray, near-black or completely black soul. Skip is Tainted. Which, ok. Not the best thing. ‘Tainted’ isn’t exactly a positive adjective.

Moving on, Peter scribbles out ‘ _ Chromatic _ ’ in the same style as  _ Grays _ , underlining that as well. It’s harder to think of categories to fit in this group, as it’s harder to pinpoint if there’s a reason for the different colors or combinations. Hesitantly, he writes  _ Solid, Gradient,  _ and  _ Abstract. _ Using this model, Ben, obviously, is a Gradient Chromatic. Teresa would be a Solid Chromatic. He’s seen people on the streets with shiny eyes and souls the color of a painted night, swirling blues and indigos with odd spots of lighter hues. It’s a beautiful looking soul, and Peter has seen exactly two people with the exact same color. There was also a woman he’d once caught a glimpse of on the street, her soul an odd combination of pink and blue, like swirls of cotton candy. He doesn’t have a clue what that could mean but he figures it’s enough to get its own category -  _ Abstract _ .

Partial color is another wildcard. There’s no way he can create separate categories when each one seems to be entirely individualistic. Color, placement of the streak, width and length, as well as how many streaks there are; it would be impossible to define them. 

Peter rubs his forehead and taps his pencil against his notebook gently. Should he call them  _ Painted? Marked? Stained? Tinted? _ No, that last one isn’t great. They aren’t tinted, it’s definitely a streak or splash.  _ Marked _ sounds the best in his head, so that’s the one he writes. It’s the only one he leaves without subcategories. 

When the bell rings Peter has covered around ten pages of the notebook meant specifically for History with theories and observations. He’s even listed all the colors he’s seen so far, even though he already has at least twenty of the same list at home. It’s soothing to repeat and keep his hand moving. 

He packs up his bag and leaves the room without any trouble, his teacher either not noticing or not caring that he’d been a space cadet the whole class. The only class he shares with Ben is PE, which sucks because it’s the class Peter hates the most, even more than he does Language Arts. This time, however, he’s glad for the class because he gets to see his twin. Ben actually listens to Peter when he theorizes and offers his own ideas. They can spend hours talking to each other about everything and nothing. They have, actually; sometimes long into the night, until the sun begins to peek out over the horizon - or until Kaine throws a pillow at them and complains that they’re making too much noise.

When he walks into the gym, his brother is already waiting for him at the entrance to the locker room.

“See any rats?” Ben says for a greeting, matching Peter step for step. The inside of the locker room smells gross, like too much body spray and unwashed clothes. Other boys are already slipping into gym shorts and switching their nice shirts for wadded up t-shirts. 

“I don’t think so.” Peter replies, “Nothing’s been wandering the halls, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ben purses his lips. “I’m not really talking about ghosts.” 

They find empty lockers right next to each other, putting their backpacks down in sync. Peter sends his brother a curious look as they pull out their gym clothes and begin to change. Their outfits are almost entirely identical, the only difference being their shoes. Their teachers usually can’t tell them apart on a good day, but with matching outfits there’s no hope.

“Then what, demons?” Peter shoves his regular clothes into his locker.

Ben shakes his head. “No, not them either. For someone so smart you forget the simplest of things.”

Peter frowns. “Well, quit being cryptic and tell me already!”

They close their lockers in sync and head out into the gymnasium. Neither of them are particularly athletic, barely any muscle or fat on their bones. Both prefer reading to playing outside - and with Peter’s asthma it’s almost too much effort to even try with all the precautions he has to take. Last time he had an asthma attack in school, the teacher kept telling him to just  _ breathe _ , as if he was doing something stupid like holding his breath. 

The gym teacher, Mr. Mahoney, is actually pretty okay about it. He’s likely more versed in health than the regular teachers, so he never says stupid things like that when talking about Peter’s issue. 

“You’re so blinded by what you can see that you forget what’s in front of you.” Ben nudges Peter’s side with his elbow. “It’s not just ghosts and demons hanging around, Peter. There’s people, too. Regular old humans.”

Like every gym class, they’re instructed to jog laps around the gymnasium for the first ten minutes as a warm up. Peter and Ben stick together as they usually do, unbothered by the other students. 

Peter purses his lips, breathing carefully as he swings his skinny arms. “I know people can be bad, Ben.”

“I know,” Ben rolls his eyes. “You’re not  _ that _ stupid. But I think you forget that they can be just as scary as the monsters.”

“Does this have something to do with your vision?” While Peter understands what Ben is trying to say, he can’t imagine how anything human could be as terrible as a creature you can barely fight back against. At least humans were tangible, whereas ghosts couldn’t be touched. (At least, no regular ghost had that ability.) Clearly, one was more dangerous than the other.

“Evil comes in all shapes and forms.” His twin mutters, face tight with frustration. “That’s what I saw in my vision. They’re hard to keep a hold of - the visions, I mean. A lot of the details are so clear in the moment but disappear quickly. It’s like grabbing at smoke. But I saw something terrible happen and it was no otherworldly spirit or creature, just a monster in the form of a man.”

“Who?” 

Ben shakes his head, “I don’t know. I think I did at first, but the face slipped away by the time I woke. I just know it was a man, and someone you knew.”

The lack of details puts Peter on edge. He’s aware that men can be murderers, psychopaths and rapists. He’s seen terrible reports on the news and watched crime shows and movies. Peter doesn’t know that many people to begin with, and to even imagine that one of them could be a person like that is almost impossible. He wants to deny it entirely and toss the thought away, far into the recesses of his mind. 

There’s just one thing that’s bothering him a little more than the rest. “What did the mystery guy do to me? Seems pretty awful if it scared you so badly.”

Ben meets his gaze and holds it for a long moment. For a beat, it’s just the two of them, the sound of other students chattering and sneakers squeaking across polished floors fading to a dull roar, until they’re indistinguishable from one another. Peter feels a cold sweat break out across his skin and it has nothing to do with the exercise he’s currently partaking in.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Ben finally looks away, words a mere whisper. Peter almost doesn’t hear them as the sounds around them come crashing back to full volume. “Not here.”

“Well… if it was supposed to happen yesterday, then maybe I won’t have to worry about it.” It’s a hopeful thought. Peter would like nothing more than to put this all behind them if possible, especially if the problem will never become one to begin with.

“Maybe…” His twin glances around the room with no small amount of suspicion, caramel gaze glinting behind large frames. “It’s just that I’ve had a bad feeling ever since the dream and it hasn’t gone away yet. It’s annoying, actually. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff… or like I did that one time we went rock climbing.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “I thought you said you weren’t scared of heights!” 

“That is  _ not _ the issue right now!” Ben exclaims, cheeks turning red. He scowls without much heat. “There’s basically a psycho after you, this is no time for jokes!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I faced a psycho.” Peter shrugs. “This one may be human, but all psychos are alike, aren’t they?”

“Are you retaining anything I’m saying in that big head of yours?” Ben snaps, “Just because you didn’t  _ die _ last time doesn’t mean you can’t  _ ever _ . You should be a little more worried about getting hurt, not thinking you can handle anything that comes for you when we barely got out of the first and, may I remind you,  _ only _ life-threatening experience we’ve ever had. We didn’t even come away unscathed! Your feet were bandaged for over a week and I had a concussion! I don’t know about you, but I didn’t forget vomiting for three hours straight every time I moved a little too fast. Plus, there’s the fact that,  _ Oh _ , I don’t know, our parents  _ died. _ ”

Peter clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes. “As if I could  _ forget _ that!”

“Then stop acting like you have, Peter.” Ben sighs, the aggravation escaping in a single exhale, leaving him to appear tired. He picks up his pace until he’s a few steps ahead of Peter.

Peter watches him go, silent. A part of him seethes at the implication that he’s being careless and forgetting the very trauma that haunts his every step. All he ever  _ does  _ is think about it, about his power and how on earth he can even  _ begin  _ to figure out the world he lives in. 

That’s not to say Ben doesn’t have a point. Peter’s aware on some level that he can hyperfixate on certain topics and ignore broader details while nitpicking at the smaller ones. It’s true that he doesn’t view humans as exceedingly dangerous, not in comparison to actual monsters. It’s also true that perhaps he’s limiting himself on what exactly fits under the umbrella term  _ monster. _

He’s not very happy about any flaw of his being pointed out to his face, however. Or being talked to like he’s stupid, especially by his brother of all people, who knows it’s one of Peter’s biggest pet peeves. If there is anything that Peter is  _ not, _ it’s an idiot. He could practically teach his classes if he really wanted to! Red-faced and agitated, Peter slows his pace just a fraction to let the gap between him and Ben grow, needing the space so he doesn’t start a full blown argument. 

By the time gym class ends, they still haven’t spoken, but Peter does feel like he’s cooled down a little. Hopefully by the time they go home they’ll be back to normal. Peter doesn’t like arguing with Ben. They’re both so frequently on the same wavelength that any arguments between them are usually the serious kind. With Kaine it feels like they argue every day, like it’s an ingrained part of their schedules. Those fights are purely simplistic, about the smallest of things being blown up to a level it shouldn’t. Any disagreement with Teresa usually ends with her getting her way no matter what. With Ben, they either always agree or come to a compromise fairly quickly. 

With all the dread and apprehension surrounding them, Peter would rather not be arguing at all. He wants Ben on his side - the only one who ever  _ is  _ when it feels like the whole world is out to get Peter. Everything bad happens to him, he should be allowed to cope with that fact however he wishes!

They change into their normal clothes in silence and it hangs like a tangible entity between them. Ben does offer him a look that Peter can’t make heads or tails of when they go their separate ways. All he can do is stare after his twin, feeling a bit like he’s been told to be careful without words. Careful is always at the forefront of Peter’s mind - or the very back. There’s no in between and no telling where that care will be in any given situation.

He’s eleven though, practically an adult. He can look after himself and he doesn’t need his brother reminding him to be careful, especially after the words they exchanged earlier. Peter tightens the straps on his backpack and walks with his head up, hoping he looks more confident than he feels. If anything, he’s safe at school. There’s no need to worry here, and it’s friday so he’ll be at home for two days without any possibility of running into any big, dumb humans trying to hurt him.

When the final school bell rings, Peter makes his way to the front doors. Ben is there as he always is, his last class closer to the entrance than Peter’s. They don’t greet each other and Peter feels a little annoyed at that, but since Ben doesn’t say anything than he won’t either. They still walk side by side to the pick-up area, as today is one of the days where Aunt May is out of work in time to pick them up, so they don’t need to spend a few hours at the Public Library waiting for her or Uncle Ben to come get them.

Aunt May’s car is an old, gray van with a crack in the front passenger window. It makes a funny noise at times when it starts and the AC is crap, but they don’t have the money to get it checked out or pay for repairs. As long as it runs, it’s good enough for them. They only need it to get to certain places after all. Driving in New York is the worst, it’s much easier to take advantage of the trains.

Skip is leaning down beside the car, speaking through the rolled down cracked window to Aunt May. Peter and Ben make their way down the walkway, awkwardly hovering behind Skip until Aunt May notices them.

“Oh, boys!” she smiles at them, still dressed in her nursing scrubs. “How was school?”

Ben opens the rear door, slipping into a mid-back seat. Teresa and Kaine will be left with the seats in the way back. “It was alright.”

“Just alright?” Skip raises his eyebrows. When Peter slips by to get into the car after Ben, Skip takes the chance to ruffle his hair. “What about you, Einstein?”

Peter shrugs, fixing his glasses. “It was ok. School.”

“Well, I was talking with Skip here and I think we might have found the solution to our babysitter problem.” Aunt May says, glancing back at Peter and Ben as they settle in and buckle their seatbelts.

“What?” Ben exclaims, affronted, “We’re eleven, we don’t need a babysitter!”

“You’re  _ eleven _ , and that’s exactly  _ why _ you both need a babysitter. Especially since your siblings are younger.” Aunt May’s tone is stern, her mind already made up. “You four are too young to be left on your own as you have been, and Ben and I can’t give up shifts. I won’t be arguing about this, understand?”

Peter glances at Ben, who frowns heavily and flushes, sitting back against the seat and turning to face the window. Skip laughs to break the tension.

“Hey now, it’ll be fun! It won’t even feel like having a babysitter, scout’s honor.” He knocks his knuckles against the top of the van. “We can just be friends hanging out, alright?”

“Sounds fine.” Peter says, once it becomes obvious that Ben isn’t going to speak. Skip smiles and Peter can see it through the window. 

“Alrighty, well, I’ll let you guys go then.” 

May checks the watch on her wrist. “Got to get the rest of the brood. We’ll see you tomorrow!”

Peter waves and Skip mimics the action. He drops his hand when the man is out of sight, and they’ve pulled onto the street. The traffic is particularly bad around this time, when all the kids are getting out of school. In another few hours it’ll be even worse, adults leaving their jobs and creating the dreaded  _ rush hour traffic _ . After sitting through it more than once, Peter can say he definitely prefers the Train to cars. 

“Is he babysitting us tomorrow?” Peter asks after a few minutes of silence. 

May’s hair is in a messy bun, loose strands clustered around her neck. She always drives with both hands on the wheel and looks twice whenever she makes turns. When she was younger she got in a bad car crash, so she always tells them they can never be too careful in the car. Peter doesn’t have much interest in getting his license, unlike a lot of other kids who can’t wait to start driving. 

Some of his classmates talk about how jealous they are of their older siblings, who are already learning to drive. Peter  _ is _ the oldest. He doesn’t know how he’d feel about having an older sibling. Maybe he can ask Teresa later, since Kaine is annoying and Ben doesn’t count.

“Yes, you’re going to leave with him and he’ll pick up Teresa and Kaine too. Both me and your Uncle work evening shifts tomorrow. I hate having you kids wait up until the library closes, or making you rely on tv dinners instead of actual meals.” She takes a deep breath, and Peter doesn’t have to see her face to know she looks stressed. 

That’s all her and Uncle Ben  _ are _ lately. They’re both in their mid-forties, overworked and constantly exhausted. Caring for four kids has added more gray hairs to their heads than aging. Peter knows that his Aunt and Uncle love them more than anything, he sees it in their eyes and in the little things they do to make sure each one of them is always getting what they  _ need _ , even if it isn’t always what they want. But they didn’t want kids. At least, that’s what Peter assumes. It’s either that, or one of them couldn’t actually… have any. He thinks it’s too inappropriate to ask, and possibly painful.

He does want to know more about their thoughts, though. Even if he’s too scared to ask. The last thing he wants is for his Aunt and Uncle to feel like they’ve wasted their lives caring for kids that aren’t theirs. One day, when he’s way older and rich enough to buy as many cars as he wants - even richer than Tony Stark, who is the sole heir of Stark Industries after his parents died in a car accident a few years ago - Peter is gonna buy Aunt May and Uncle Ben anything they want. A big house that doesn’t creak and has enough rooms for all of them, and a big car that doesn’t have a crack in it or smell like mothballs and petroleum. 

He doesn’t know how else to make it up to them.

* * *

They go home with Skip the next day. Or rather, Skip goes home with them. His car is nicer than Aunt May’s, the paint shiny and the windows perfectly put together. It smells like pine needles, courtesy of the tree shaped air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. After a few minutes, however, the combined scent of a newer car and fake pine makes his head hurt and he’s happy to finally pull up into their driveway. He got to ride in the front seat for the first time, much to Kaine’s chagrin. Ben gets to ride up front next time, so Kaine will just have to wait his turn. The only one not allowed is Teresa, because she’s too short and young. 

Peter dutifully unlocks the front door with the key Uncle Ben had made him. He’d kept it hidden in his backpack all day, feeling especially important that he held such an item. They all tumble in, Teresa taking off after thrusting her coat onto the hook by the entryway. She’s excited to show Skip a new coloring book she’d gotten recently. It’s filled with a bunch of animals, all in cartoon form. Peter’s had the pleasure of joining her in completing a few pages, which isn’t so bad. He’s not thinking of turning in his science books for a sketchbook anytime soon, but it’s a good source of stress relief when his brain feels like it’s going to implode.

Kaine tosses his jacket on the hook beside Teresa’s, kicking off his boots noisily and tossing them in a messy heap to the side. Ben puts them upright and next to his own, before shucking his jacket off as well. 

“Nice place,” Skip comments.

Peter shrugs. “Yeah.” It’s not especially great, a little old and far too small for six people, but it’s home and he has a lot of good memories here. “Here, you can hang up your coat next to mine.”

The end up having mac ‘n cheese for dinner, with hot dogs that Skip cuts up to look like little octopi. It’s actually pretty fun, if not mildly uncomfortable. It’s nothing Skip does. He’s perfectly nice as usual, helping with homework and complimenting Peter on his science skills, but the last time Peter had seen a black aura - or soul, rather - in the place he called home hadn’t been… the best. It sets him on edge and he can’t explain why.

Skip has given Peter no reason to mistrust him, even Aunt May thought the young man was a godsend. But some part of him can’t get the blackness of Skip’s soul out of his mind, nor the words Ben had uttered just the other day.

“What time did your Aunt and Uncle say they would be getting back?” Skip asks, when the sun has set and the dishes are all put away. Teresa is already dead asleep in her room, Skip having tucked her in not thirty minutes ago. Kaine is sitting by the TV, on the floor before it instead of on the couch. His gaze is glued to the screen, which is playing a Star Wars movie. Peter’s already seen it, so he’s not paying much attention to it. He likes Star Trek more than Star Wars, anyway. Ben is nose-deep in another book, curled up in Uncle Ben’s armchair. 

“Uncle Ben should be back around midnight. Aunt May is….” he thinks for a moment, trying to recall the time she’d said this morning. Her shifts vary week by week, so it’s hard to keep track of them. “I think around 2 am.”

“Wow,” Skip hums. “Pretty late. Is it like that often?”

Peter shrugs, “Yeah. They have to work a lot. It’s not their fault.”

It’s  _ theirs _ , he doesn’t say. The kids. Four extra mouths and needs to tend to. They can’t even offer anything in compensation, all they do is take, take,  _ take. _ Which is why Peter is gonna either work for Stark one day, or make his own company and get even  _ more _ famous. But he’s not gonna go clubbing, because parties are still boring and alcohol is gross. 

“Of course not,” Skip whispers his agreement, careful not to catch Kaine’s attention, who’s still woefully invested in Star Wars. “They’re very impressive, working so hard to care for four kids.”

It warms Peter’s heart that other people can see the same thing and don’t just assume May and Ben are bad caretakers. A lady at the library had once given May a weird look when she showed up hours after Peter and his siblings had been there. Peter had given into his childish impulses for once and stuck his tongue out at her. 

He puffs out his chest proudly, preening like a bird. “Yeah, they’re awesome.”

_ We’re very lucky, _ he doesn’t say. Doesn’t think about the horror stories he’s heard about foster homes and how easily it could have been him and his siblings. They could have been juggled from house to house, stuck in a group home or separated. There would be no memories of soft light and warms hands on his forehead, no memories of Aunt May’s terrible cooking and smoke wafting out open windows on a summer day, the house reeking of burnt salmon. Uncle Ben’s laughter and the way he only ever sits on the stuffy, plush armchair with the patch on the seat. 

They sit in comfortable silence for the rest of the night, until Kaine’s eyes slip shut and he curls up, dead asleep, on the floor. Skip carries him to bed after a bit, when the TV starts hurting their eyes and the carpet has pressed a pattern into Kaine’s cheek.

* * *

Uncle Ben is up in the morning to bring them to school, tired but smiling. He looks a lot softer in the morning, stress lines faded and eyes bleary. For once, Peter feels like things may be looking up.

* * *

_ SPRING, 1999 _

Peter was wrong. 

He grows lax in the weeks following that first day Skip babysits. Uncle Ben celebrates Hanukkah, and this year it starts around mid-december. All the Parker kids participate, watching with wide eyes as Uncle Ben lights a candle with the Shamash every night, until eight flames flicker on the menorah. Their Uncle never forces them to come with him when he visits the local synagogue, but Peter has always gone a few times out of curiosity. He’s not entirely sold on the God thing just yet.

It’s a happy week. He ends the night with grease-slick fingers from eating one too many latkes, falling asleep to the scent of cinnamon and sweet jelly. Aunt May sends them to school with cookies the whole week, the only recipe she manages to follow without incident. 

They still each get a small gift for Christmas, the holiday more of an event than anything else. Peter likes the colors and scents that come with Christmas, the way ceramic mugs filled with hot cocoa burn his fingertips and frost bites at his nose, leaving it red and numb. Red is his favorite color -- the green he could do without. Christmas movies play on a loop and shops are filled with music attuned to the season. The entire country is swept up in the holiday, whether you celebrate it or not. 

(Peter thinks it’s funny that Christmas was originally a pagan holiday, but that’s forgotten in favor of the whole Jesus thing.) 

At school they make Christmas cards, and Peter writes  _ Happy Yule _ across all of his, surrounded by a bunch of nordic symbols. Unfortunately there’s a substitute teacher that day - which is why they’re wasting their Language Arts class doodling half-baked Christmas Cards - and she’s clearly a devout Catholic. Peter doesn’t have a problem with Catholics or any religion, but he doesn’t like the way she clings to her rosary beads and makes them recite a verse from the Bible as a nod to the holiday. When she looks at his cards her face screws up like she’s eaten something sour. She tells him she doesn’t think it’s very funny to doodle symbols of witchcraft. She sends him to the Principal’s Office when he tells her he thinks the idea of a fat man breaking into your house is a ridiculous thing to celebrate and her decorations were stolen aesthetics from a pagan holiday. 

He doesn’t end up going, of course. When he tells the principle he’s Jewish the man turns three shades paler and send him back to class without much preamble. 

Mrs. Morris gives him the stink-eye the rest of the period.

When the snow begins to melt under the heat of the sun’s increasingly present rays and the trees begin to grow little green buds, he’s forgotten all about Ben’s words of warning. Life begins to poke out from the once frozen ground, fresh green grass and flowers. Dandelions grow from the cracks in the sidewalk outside their home. Teresa crouches outside in the warming air, winter jacket switched out for windbreaker and plucks at them, blowing the dandelion fuzz into the air until her cheeks are flushed red.

Spring comes quick and wet, the air muggy and making sweat bead at the back of his neck. It alternates between days almost too-hot and too-cold, the season still settling itself. On a day when the sun is high in the sky, rays beating down and drawing sweat from his skin, Peter is reminded with clarity what his brother had said during the winter months.

Downstairs, Kaine plays his Game Boy, dead to the world and tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration. Ben has been reading a new book for the past two days, so invested he’s barely talked to anyone, even Peter. He sits in the kitchen, a plate of cookies before him, ignored in favor of the book. Teresa is gone for once, staying at a friend’s house. 

Peter’s gotten used to spending his time with Skip, talking about anything and everything. 

They’re in his room, the window cracked to let in a breeze. Pollen sticks to the screen and the sound of cars passing at random intervals can be heard. It’s nothing different, not at first. Skip sits closer and closer everyday, but Peter doesn’t notice it, not until their knees are bumping and he distantly remembers a time when they hadn’t. Skip brushes his hands through Peter’s hair, taps his nose and tugs his ears.

“It’s a joke,” he says when Peter complains about it. “I’m teasing you because I like you.”

Peter isn’t liked by many, so he allows it. He sees other kids at school hang off each other, girls linking arms and boys shoving each other’s shoulders. It must be a sign of friendship, of camaraderie. 

When Skip’s hands rest on his knees or back, he tries not to think anything of it. 

“I have something to show you,” Skip murmurs one day, closing the bedroom door behind him. Peter sits on the lower bunk, legs swinging as he looks through a stack of records Skip has brought -- he’s even brought over his record player, so they can listen. It’s pretty old, so it has to be handled carefully. Peter’s in charge of picking the music, something he’s never done before. The Parker household doesn’t have a record player, just a radio.

“What is it?” he asks, the sleeve of Nirvana record clutched in his hands. It’s his choice of music today, the first two tracks have already played and the third is just beginning.

The click of the lock makes Peter sit up straighter.  _ Come As You Are _ fills the air, drifting out the window and under the door. The sweat on his neck has dried tacky. Peter is a lion made of stars, but beside Skip he’s just a boy. The other towers over him even as they sit, his soul cloying and poisonous. Ignoring the discomfort it brought has become second nature, until he barely sees it. Yet sometimes, when he glimpses it from the corner of his eye, it sends shivers down his spine. He wonders if it’s the same as having a dangerous pet, seeing the best in it but always wary, always anticipating. 

When Skip smiles it looks like a shark, too wide, too sharp. “Some books you might like. I know how much you like learning new things, Einstein.” Sunlight splashes across his face, highlighting the sunburn across his cheekbones and the wrinkles by his eyes. The expression Peter has become so familiar with suddenly looks plastic, to an unnerving degree.

He swallows. Has it always appeared so grotesque? 

There are magazines in one of Skip’s hands. The other brushes a few stray curls from Peter’s forehead. A thousand words he cannot possibly articulate catch in Peter’s chest. He is soft and unmade, not yet carved from stone. He is clay, moldable and easily to deform. His resistance is futile, limbs folding like tissue paper. 

“I thought we could try out some of the stuff in here.” The darkness swallows Skip, until he’s merely teeth and terrible blue, wide-eyed and unbending. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“...No…” Peter says, sinking beneath wave after wave of terror. He’s alone in the ocean, floating, stranding, no end in sight. Just the infinite expanse of blue on every side, deep and dark like the eyes that pin him in place. Peter expects Skip’s hands to feel like ice, frigid like the depths of the ocean.

They are.

Peter pretends he’s on a boat. He lays on the deck and stares up into the sky, a different shade of blue. The heavy crashing of drums and guitar drown out all other sound, until he feels it vibrating his skin. He recites the constellations in his head, tracing invisible paths with his eyes. 

Leo,  _ the lion _ .

* * *

His skin isn’t clean no matter how many times he washes it. He finds himself staring at his hands, tracing the lines in his palms. They don’t look dirty, they look like flesh and muscle. The soul is a reflection of you, of everything that makes up  _ everything _ about you. What could it possibly look like now? Is it tainted so horribly, so permanently, that it crawls across his form like a million ants, desperate for release? Is it a blessing or a curse that he cannot gaze upon himself and find the answer he seeks?

He’s not sure.

Spring is the budding of new flowers and the sound of children pouring into the streets to kick up grass and throw mud at each other. Spring tastes like shame, like salt water pouring down his throat until he chokes on it. It burns all the way down and leaves him shaking for days after, weak and solemn.

Peter gags and spits and forces his fingers down his throat but the taste doesn’t leave. It clings stubbornly, like barbed wire. He pulls a dandelion from a crack in the sidewalk and blows until he can’t, long after every fuzzy seed has been knocked loose.


	6. melting candles

“ _But promises based on ignorance always prove disappointing._ ”

— Jussi Adler-Olsen

* * *

  
There is no huge rescue like there is in movies or books. He doesn’t go weeks without telling anyone, because he doesn’t actually do any telling. Living with a twin that dreams of reality and can basically read your mind means that nothing is ever  _ really _ a secret. At least, not for long. 

For a while, Peter fades, like an old photo left out in the sun. His colors diminish and talking becomes impossible. Whenever it matters, it seems like words fail him. He can talk up a storm when it comes to subjects he’s interested in, but the second it hits emotional territory it’s like his vocabulary becomes limited to his age range. For a genius, it’s humiliating. 

A lot of things are.

Peter doesn’t sleep the night it happens, or the next one. The thought of going to school makes him sick, so he doesn’t. Then the weekend hits. Time doesn’t feel real. It moves at light speed and like sludge, and everywhere in between. 

He’s staring up at the ceiling in the top bunk, reciting equations in his head and pretending the mattress is a cloud. He’s flying above the earth, drifting into space. Every exhale is deep, emptying his lungs entirely. Oxygen in the lungs would get you killed in an instant while in the vacuum of space.

The bed below him squeaks with movement. Feet slap against the ground quietly, followed by the rattle of the ladder rungs. Peter sits up on his elbows, wings clipped. Ben’s messy hair pops up first, the rest of his face following. His eyes are piercing, narrowed and lit like beacons. They glow gold, dimmer than they have when he wakes, screaming, from powerful visions. Still, the difference is noticeable. It’s beautiful, if a little jarring. 

“Peter,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to protect you.”

Ben presses a palm to his eyes, wincing like he’s got a headache. 

“Turn it off.” Peter doesn’t comment on the tears that have started dripping down his twin’s face, sliding off his chin and onto Peter’s sheets. The visible moonlight makes the resulting tracks gleam.

“I’m trying.” Ben huffs, “I’m trying.”

Peter can’t blame his brother for his powers, can’t even blame him for knowing the things Peter would rather have been kept secret. Sighing, Peter throws his covers aside. Ben steps down the ladder. They meet eyes for a long moment, Peter from above and Ben from below. He watches as his twin turns on his heel and walks out of the room. 

What follows is a lot. Crying, screaming, anger - you name it. 

“Will I have to see him?” He asks his Aunt and Uncle, then the police, then the lawyer man who looks at him with sad, sad eyes.  _ No _ , they all tell him. 

“Just tell us what happened.”

So he does, quietly, in a room with four walls and no windows, wrapped in a blanket and head throbbing, cheeks flushed with humiliation and stomach on the verge of expelling all its meager contents. It doesn’t feel good. People always tell you to talk about your problems. They tell you it helps; synonymous with expelling poison. Peter feels like he’s just swallowing it by the gallon, downing whole cartons of bleach. It’s like death.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” his Aunt sobs against him, cuddling his small, fragile body to hers like he’s at risk of melting into nothing. That’s certainly what it feels like to him. 

Everyone tells him  _ sorry _ . Even the police officers do. Peter thinks it’s weird because it wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t anyone’s, just Skip’s. And his own. He was a genius, could even see souls, yet when the obvious was before him he didn’t even acknowledge it. A black soul meant evil. He’d known.  _ He’d known. _ But a smile had distracted him. Skip had been so human - nice to all, loved by everyone. When he spoke it was like he was paying attention, like he  _ knew Peter _ . The boy who didn’t have friends, who was stuck in his own head and books and couldn’t understand why children were so mean.

Peter didn’t look at himself and say,  _ that guy looks lonely. _ That would mean admitting he wanted friends, that he wanted people to look at him and be happy to have him there. Skip had made him feel that way. He’d felt needed, wanted. When he walked the halls he wasn’t invisible, because Skip was always there with a greeting.

But… the more Peter thought about it, the more he realized that he’d been manipulated. The police explained it in detail, using soft voices and vocabulary Peter was eons ahead of. 

“I want to go home,” he finally says, shifting in his Aunt’s arms.

She pushes the hair back from his forehead. “Of course we will. Whatever you want.”

An officer puts a hand on her shoulder, looking regretful. “Sorry ma’am, but we can’t do that just yet.”

His name is Officer Lawrence, and he’s got dark hair and light eyes and a soft smile. It matches his soul, a pale shade of gray which wavers when he glances at Peter. It’s sympathy, but it borders a bit too much on pity and that’s the last thing Peter wants right now. He’s tired and he wants to go home.

“Well, why not?” Aunt May asks, face creasing. Her voice cracks like it does when she’s trying not to yell.

Officer Lawrence frowns, regret not fading from his features. “We recommend checking him into a hospital and having a—” he pauses, looking down at Peter. After a swallow he continues. “A rape assessment done.”

Aunt May puts a shaky hand to her mouth, eyes closing for a long moment as she visibly tries to pull herself together. Uncle Ben paces outside, Peter’s siblings lined up in little plastic chairs as Officers ask them questions about Skip. As far as they know, Peter is the only one who —- the only one that — 

It’s a long night.

* * *

When Peter goes back to school, the kids don’t look at him differently. They aren’t told what happened, and the news of a pedophile being arrested is kept pretty hush-hush. 

For a while.

The parents look, a few days later. But it’s kept out of the ears of children. Teachers pull him aside constantly, telling him that he can talk to them whenever he wants, or take a moment when he needs it.

Everyone wants to talk. His Aunt and Uncle, his teachers, the therapist. Peter doesn’t want to talk, he wants to forget it ever happened, he wants to scrub the memory from his mind. Maybe one day he can create a machine that can do that — take away the bad memories so they don’t hurt you anymore. 

His Aunt May and Uncle Ben hover a lot. They think it’s their fault that this all happened because they invited Skip into their home. He doesn’t tell them about how Skip’s soul is black; about how, at any time, Peter could have cut off contact to protect himself. If he was smarter, this wouldn’t have happened.

_ You wouldn’t have known, _ they tell him,  _ he was so nice. _

Except he did know. He knew the whole time.

“I hate this.” He mutters, staring out the window. The entire bedroom has been rearranged to promote Peter’s recovery. The sheets burned and the walls repainted. Uncle Ben even allowed Peter to paste glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling. He arranged them in the order of the constellation Leo.

“Virgo!” Kaine had complained, sticky hands pressing rubber stars into Peter’s hands. “C’mon, this is my room too!”

Peter humors him, because Kaine is one of the few who doesn’t change. Ben would never judge Peter, even if he murdered someone. (Which he wouldn’t, and Ben knows that too.) Taurus joins shortly after, Teresa directing his motions even though he’s already memorized the constellation. It’s nice to look at when he can’t sleep. His eyes can run over actual stars instead of ones he conjures in his imagination.

“I know.” Ben says, kicking his feet as he lays belly down on the bed.

“I feel like a caged bird,” Peter huffs, “I barely even went outside to begin with, but now that I’m being forced to stay  _ in _ , it sucks.”

Ben rolls over, spread-eagle. “Well, you said it yourself. You barely go outside anyway. What would you do if you weren’t being told to stay in?”

“...stay in.”

“Exactly,” Ben rolls his eyes. “If you ask me, you just have to wait it out. It’s not like they’ll forget, but they should become more lenient with time.”

“Yeah, but how  _ much _ time? How long is it gonna take before I can even take a step out of school without a million eyes on me, making sure I don’t get swept off my feet and carted into a white van?” It’s like they think he’s suddenly a magnet for child molestors. The likelihood of it happening again is slim - practically nonexistent. Impossible, even. He’ll never trust a black soul again. Lesson learned and all that jazz.

“Just wait, Peter. Just wait.”

Peter pulls away from the window, flopping down onto the bottom bunk beside his brother. Ben adjusts his limbs to make space and they lay side-by-side, elbows brushing. Taped to the underside of the top bunk is a topographic map of New York marked with deep lines done in marker, highlighting where the ley lines are.

“Can’t you tell me with your powers, O Great Seer?”

“As if,” Ben snorts. “I don’t have the slightest idea how to control it, and I can’t choose what I see.” He becomes a little more somber, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Trust me, I wish I could.”

Peter doesn’t have anything to say to that.

* * *

Depression is like fog. Turning on a light doesn’t do much, and no matter how hard he squints or clears his glasses, he can’t see through it. It’s like little dew drops of moisture clinging to his skin, giving weight to the air like a humid summer day. Every step feels like a trial. He’s Sisyphus, pushing the boulder to the very top of the hill only for it to roll back to the bottom. Except he’s the boulder as well as the man pushing it. It feels impossible. He can’t possibly push himself to move. Spring passes in a haze.

Everyone is worried. Sometimes too much. At least it feels like too much. The air is already foggy and heavy, so the weight of everyone’s eyes and hovering just makes it even harder to breathe. He falls asleep with his inhaler in his hand every night.

What he doesn’t realize is how much his emotions affect the world around him. The power he holds in his chest is impossible, beautiful -- a wildfire. An inferno. He suffers, and the world notices. 

So do the creatures living in it. Alive or dead.

It’s around noon on a saturday. He’s sitting on Kaine’s bed, propped against the headboard. There’s a book in his hands, but he’s been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes. He can’t even describe the contents despite being about five chapters in. Ben and Kaine are out at the park with some friends. Peter’s a little bitter that Uncle Ben and Aunt May let Ben go out but refuse to let him do the same. Uncle Ben is at work, he picked up even more shifts than usual so Aunt May could change her own schedule. It allows her to watch them when they get out of school. 

No more babysitters.

He can hear the slight rumble of the TV on downstairs. It’s around the time when Teresa’s favorite show will be on, so she’s likely the one watching it, huddled too close to the TV— only to be reprimanded by Aunt May. He can see it now.

The book is becoming more of a headache than a leisurely experience at this point. Sighing, he drops it against his chest and stares up at the ceiling. 

_ Knock knock. _

“What?” 

No response. Peter sits up a little straighter. “Aunt May?”

_ Knock knock. _

Pursing his lips, Peter tosses the book to the side and slips off the bed. There’s no particular feeling in the air, but paranoia grips him like a steel bear trap. 

He opens the door. The hall is empty, lights off but brightened by rays of the sun filtering in through the window, specks of dust floating lazily. His toes curl in his socks and he grips the doorknob so tightly his knuckles strain white.  _ There’s no one there. You’re just paranoid _ .

This house has been quiet for years without a single ghost or demon incident. He’s not inclined to believe that’s changed. He would feel it, surely, or Ben would See it. There’s nothing to feel here but his own paranoia. He closes the door.

* * *

Teresa Parker isn’t stupid. Some bad things have happened recently to her big brother. She doesn’t exactly know  _ what _ , but based on what the Policemen said she can put a few things together. (See, she’s smart!) It’s been making everyone really sad recently, and she hates that. Hopefully she’ll figure out something nice to do to make her Peter smile again. He hasn’t done it in a while, and that’s not good. People who don’t smile get wrinkles and turn into cranky old men! And that wouldn’t make sense, because while Peter can be cranky he’s not old enough for wrinkles just yet.

Her how-to-make-Peter-smile research is mostly based around all the lessons she’s learned watching Care Bears - which she’s actually doing right now. Kaine calls it stupid, but Teresa thinks  _ he’s _ the stupid one. He’s even grumpier than Peter, so even though he’s the little brother, he’s probably going to get wrinkles first. When she told him that, he buried her favorite Barbie doll in the front yard. But that’s ok, Barbie was back to normal after a bath and Kaine got grounded and had to do yard-work with Uncle Ben to make up for the hole.

Teresa likes Kaine because he plays with her the most, but he’s kind of mean. Ben still reigns supreme in her eyes. He’s never been mean to her, not once! He even pushed that Stevie kid who was chasing her around at the playground last week. Teresa thinks that’s pretty cool.

What’s coolest right now, in her mind, is Care Bears. She rocks in place in front of the TV, holding her favorite plush to her chest. It’s a bunny with only one black button eye and matted brown fur that betrays its age. His name is Charleston and she’s had him for as long as she can remember, which is a super long time!

“Hey.”

Teresa glances away from the screen, startled. “What?”

There’s no one else in the room. Teresa crawls over the couch and peers behind it, wondering if one of her brothers is hiding there, trying to scare her. It’s probably Kaine. Except there isn’t anyone there. Frowning, Teresa pushes herself up and stands, Charleston hanging limply in her grasp. 

“Hellloooo?” she calls, glancing around the living room. 

Aunt May peeks in from the kitchen. “Did you say something?”

“Did  _ you _ say something?” Teresa asks in return. It hadn’t sounded like Aunt May, but maybe she’d been using one of her funny voices to play a trick!

“Don’t be silly,” Aunt May laughs, before disappearing back into the kitchen. She’s been pouring over a few new recipes, which is pretty scary. Teresa hopes she levels up her cooking skill soon.

Shrugging, Teresa settles back in front of the TV and soon forgets about the voice entirely. Within minutes she’s bobbing her head along to the beat of a passing commercial. 

“Hey!”

Teresa jumps, whirling around to look behind her. Charleston thumps softly to the ground. The voice sounds like a guy, but maybe also like a girl...she can’t really tell. Either way, it doesn’t sound familiar. Feeling a little scared now, she goes to check behind the couch once more only to come up empty again. 

“Huh.” she mutters. “Magic?”

When she straightens up her eyes catch a slight movement. The windows facing the street are slightly cracked to let in a light breeze, the floor-length curtains pushed aside. On the left, the clustered curtain looks like it’s bulging. 

“I see you!” she laughs, certain it’s one of her brothers. Again, probably Kaine, because Peter is too sad lately and Ben is too nice. Without much thought she strides forward and pulls the curtain away, intent on catching the trickster in the act. “What?”

Except there’s no one there. The curtains fall back into place when she releases then, this time the weird shape absent. Maybe it  _ was _ magic. Another shape catches her eye and she leans forward to look out the window. Squinting against the glare of the sun, Teresa can see out to the tiny front yard with it’s newly filled in hole and the street. It’s garbage day, the stinkiest time of the week. Beside the big garbage can is Charleston.

Confused, Teresa turns around and stares at the empty space in the front of the TV, where she’s sure she dropped her beloved bunny companion. Maybe it’s  _ Charleston  _ who’s playing a trick on her! She didn’t know he could talk and walk! He’s really been holding out on her. 

Teresa opens the front door quietly. Aunt May doesn’t like her out in the yard on her own because it’s dangerous, but it’s okay since she won’t be out long. All she has to do is grab Charleston and come back inside, then they can talk about how he’s secretly a super bunny. She leaves the main door open a crack and makes sure not to slam the screen door. It’s warm out, especially under the afternoon sun. Teresa can see why Ben and Kaine went to the park. She would have gone too, but  _ Care Bears. _

She makes her way down the short walkway only to see that Charleston has moved away from the garbage can. He’s sitting in the middle of the street, on his little fluffy tushy and staring directly at her.

“Hey, that’s not funny!” Teresa frowns, “The street is dangerous, Charleston! You shouldn’t sit there!” 

Glancing side to side quickly - because she’s not  _ dumb,  _ she knows the street rules - Teresa makes her way into the street. It seems like Charleston is pretty shy, only moving when she’s not looking. That’s okay, they can work on that.

She picks him up, holding him out before her. “We need to go over the street rules, buck-o.” 

“Hey!”

Teresa jumps, clutching Charleston close to her chest. This time the voice is different - it’s coming from a boy on the sidewalk. He’s got a dark shirt and ratty shorts on, with a red baseball cap shielding his eyes from the sun. There’s a bat in one of his hands and a ball and glove combo under the opposite arm. She’s seen him a few times before at the park, usually playing some sporty thing. He lives down the street and his dad’s pretty mean. Peter and Ben are about his age, but they never hang out even though Ben says the boy came to one of their birthday parties once. She forgets his name.

“Are you dumb? Get out of the street.” he scowls, marching over. Now that he’s closer she can see the bluish tint to his eyes and the splash of freckles across his nose. She thinks his hair might be blond, but it’s hard to tell with the hat on. 

“I’m not dumb! I’m super smart!” she huffs. “I checked both ways!”

The boy frowns, “What were you even standing around for then?”

Teresa holds up Charleston, in all his ragged glory. “I had to get Charleston! He was sitting in the middle of the street. I don’t think he knows the street rules yet. I’ll have to teach him later.”

The boy looks at her with an expression she’s seen a few times on Peter’s face. She’s not sure what it means just yet, but it doesn’t seem super nice- or super mean….hm. She’ll figure it out eventually!

“Yeah, okay.” The boy glances down the street. “Teach your bunny not to be stupid and get out of the road.”

Teresa pouts. That wasn’t a very nice thing to say. Holding Charleston close once more, Teresa decides the best thing to do is get off the road before continuing the conversation, safety rules and all. She makes it to the sidewalk in front of her house and turns, seeing the boy going back to his side. Raising her voice to be heard, Teresa yells, “That wasn’t very nice!”

The boy looks back, face screwed up like he can’t believe she’s still talking to him. “Go home!”

Teresa thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to stick out her tongue, so she does. He sticks his tongue out right back. A worthy opponent. She’ll have to ask his name next time. 

* * *

Peter wakes up around midnight with a parched throat and a great need to pee. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and throws his blankets to the side, taking care to stay quiet as he creeps out of the room. His brothers continue sleeping undisturbed.

The hall is dark, the only light from the open bathroom door. There’s a nightlight in there now, specifically for times like these. He still feels half-asleep, stumbling his way in without much grace. His eyes are adjusted to the dark enough that he doesn’t flip on the main light, saving him from being blinded. Yawning, he proceeds about his business.

While he’s washing his hands he begins to wake up a little more, becoming aware of the shadows and darkness swallowing his frame in the mirror. 

_ Quit it, Peter. _ He thinks to himself, drying his hands quickly.  _ You’re just being paranoid. _ That’s all he’s been lately. Tense, scared, on-edge and looking over his shoulder -- he’s tired of it. He refuses to be the traumatized kid everyone expects.  _ He’s fine _ , and there’s nothing there.

On the way back to his room he’s hyper-aware of everything, glancing at every dark corner. There’s nothing moving in the shadows, but it feels like someone is watching him. Swallowing, Peter quickens his steps and throws the bedroom door open. He makes more noise than he did when leaving, but neither of his brothers stir. Sighing in relief once he shuts the door behind him, Peter moves to grip the rungs of the ladder. 

_ Shhff. _

The sound of shifting fabric catches his attention in the silence of the room. He puts both feet back on the ground. Had he still been half-asleep, he may have assumed it to be one of his brothers, but since he isn’t he can quite clearly tell that the noise came from above. Peter looks up slowly, almost reluctant to do so. From his position on the ground he can’t see much of the top bunk, but it looks far darker than any other part of the room. 

Something is telling him not to go up there.

After everything, Peter is reluctant to ignore any of his gut feelings. He moves slowly, nervously; like any sudden movement will end in his swift and sudden death. The bottom bunk mattress creaks noisily under his knees when he hoists himself up beside Ben. It makes him wince but he doesn’t freeze, heart thudding in his chest. Slipping under the covers, he huddles close to Ben, feeling much calmer when he feels the weight and warmth of another human. 

The fear, however, is still very much present. It rots away at that momentary sense of safety until he feels just as paranoid as before, if not more so. The air is so heavy and oppressive he can’t believe either of his brothers are able to sleep soundly. Trembling fingers tug the covers up and over his head, blocking his view of the dim room.

While there is no real truth in the phrase ‘if I can’t see them they can’t see me’, it sure makes him feel a bit better. It gets warm very quickly under the sheets, a combination of two bodies and his frequent exhales. 

He’s left with the sound of his own breathing. 

Then the bunk frame creaks. He hears the sound of sheets moving again, this time in a more aggressive manner, like they’ve been tossed aside in a fit. He clenches his fists by his chest so tightly his fingers ache. The noises pick up, until he hears a fluttery  _ swoosh _ followed by a dull thump the the side. It sounds like the sheets have been thrown right off the bunk. 

Whatever was up there doesn’t like the fact that he hadn’t gone up. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and prays to whoever will listen, wanting it to be  _ gone _ or at least for him to fall asleep and skip to morning, where he’ll feel safer in the light of day. 

Springs bounce and creak. The ladder rattles softly. Peter holds his breath and doesn’t move, still silently praying for a miracle. He’s slept up in the top bunk for years now, so he knows what it sounds like to climb up and down those thin ladder rungs. He knows exactly what he’s hearing right now. It’s someone coming down, their weight making the rungs squeak louder than they ever have under him. He’s about ready to scream when the steps finish, indicating that whatever had been up there is now on the floor, standing just beside where he’s laying. 

_ Go away, go away, go away, go away, go away. _ He repeats in his head like a mantra, giving up on praying for any assistance. He’s never believed in that stuff anyway, so if there is a higher power out there they probably wouldn’t be jumping to help.

The room is absolutely silent aside from his pulse echoing in his ears, fast as a hummingbird. He fears it’s beating loud enough for the trespassing creature to hear. For the next ten or so minutes he lays like that, steadily getting hotter under the sheets and desperately wishing for cool, fresh air. The fear keeps him frozen in place, breathing softly enough to be near-silent. He’s stiff as a board, unable to relax when he knows there’s someone or something just  _ standing _ there, watching. Waiting.  _ Hoping _ he’ll make a move. 

The bed shifts. Peter almost screams before he realizes it had come from the wrong side. Ben rolls a bit and grumbles, before sitting up. The blanket lifts from Peter’s eyes and the fresh air is heavenly. His brother squints at him in the dark, before glancing around the room. When he doesn’t freak out or stop to look at anything, Peter lets the tension drain out of his body.

“What are you doin’?” Ben grumbles, voice slurred with sleep.

Peter peers nervously to his left, at the space beside the bed. There’s nothing there, just emptiness and the shape of Kaine’s bed, where the youngest Parker boy still slumbers without a care. “There was something in my bed.”

Ben leans on his elbow, looking a little more awake at Peter’s ominous words. “Like a ghost? Or…” 

“I dunno.” Peter whispers in reply, “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

They aren’t exactly six years old anymore, but Ben just shrugs and nods without comment. They shuffle a bit and lay side by side, their shoulders just barely brushing. The sheet remains pulled up around their chests, baring their faces to the open air of the room. 

Peter still feels like he’s being watched. 

* * *

Having a lot of time to himself is a side-effect of being cooped up in the house. His siblings, while definitely facing a stricter form of monitoring than before, have it nowhere near as bad as he does. They’re still able to hang out with friends -- that, of course, doesn’t exactly mean too much, seeing as Peter doesn’t have any of his own -- but it’s the concept. He faces more restriction than they do, because Aunt May and Uncle Ben are afraid that the slightest thing will worsen his trauma. 

Peter doesn’t like to think of it as trauma, even if it would be had it happened to anyone else. Trying to put the word  _ victim _ beside his name makes him uncomfortable, like he’s a problem. Peter isn’t a problem, he’s a problem-solver. He doesn’t care what his therapist says, he’s  _ fine. _ Everything is fine.

To distract himself, he’s reading even more books than before and picking up new hobbies. Mainly those of the engineering kind. He’s become rather obsessed with figuring out how everything works, and how he can possibly fix something after taking it completely apart. They have an old radio that Uncle Ben used to listen to while he got ready for work, but it stopped working a few weeks back and they can’t afford to get it fixed or purchase a new one. Seeing as it was useless to him, Uncle Ben lets Peter take it apart.

Peter, surrounded by three different manuals, had pulled it apart with tools and laid out the entire radio in all its parts. Not as single thing missing. It was broken, but not a single part of it had disappeared. Peter could make it whole again, rebuild it with all its parts, and it would work. Broken, maybe. But not forever. Like a deep cut needs stitches, the radio just needed a little extra help to heal.

He is no permanently broken machine. He still has all the pieces of himself. There is no need to be fixed or repaired.  _ He’s totally fine _ , he just needs time. 

Peter puts the radio back together. Uncle Ben is proud, and resumes listening to it during the mornings, humming with renewed pep. It’s all better, fixed up to work again. Even so, Peter can’t help but notice that it sounds a little different now. 

The longer he listens the more he hears it, as slight as it is. The radio has changed.

He supposes he’ll just have to get better at fixing things.

* * *

“Are you watching Terminator again?” 

It’s late in the evening, dinner already over with and the majority of the household tucked away in their rooms for the night. All the curtains are drawn to block the glare of the streetlights, the room awash with a dim golden glow from the lamp beside Uncle Ben’s recliner. Because it’s a weekend, their bedtimes aren’t as strongly enforced as usual. Therefore, ten-year-old Kaine can take advantage of the quiet and watch his favorite action movie for the fortieth time without being bothered.

Well, for the most part.

He glances over at Peter with a not-so-happy expression on his face. Peter returns the look with a raised eyebrow. Despite the question being redundant, Kaine still replies with a, “It’s Terminator  _ 2 _ , you ignoramus. What of it?”

“Don’t you get bored? You’ve probably memorized the whole script by now.” As he speaks, Peter walks around the coffee table - heavy with month-old magazines and a forgotten mug - and flops down on the couch.

Kaine, who is nodding his head to the beat of  _ Bad to the Bone _ and mouthing the lyrics as Arnold Schwarzenegger hops on his appropriated motorcycle, sends Peter another unpleasant look. This is usually how most of their conversations go.

“ _ Can’t let you take the man’s wheels, son. _ ” he says, just as the man on screen does, as though to prove some point.

Peter rolls his eyes, but stays. He doesn’t feel like going up to bed just yet. Their room has become unpleasant during the evenings, especially for Peter, who has a hard time staying asleep through the night. As long as they don’t start arguing, he can tolerate Kaine’s presence just as well as Ben’s. He loves his brother, really, even if he’ll never admit it even under the threat of death. 

They sit quietly and watch the film, Peter getting mildly invested despite having seen it more than once, though not near as many times as his little brother. Kaine is mostly quiet, breaking the silence between them occasionally by quoting one of the characters. 

It’s about thirty minutes later that they both hear it, even over the noise of the movie. It’s the groan of wood - like a creaking drawer being opened or a chair being dragged across the floor. Peter and Kaine glance at each other instinctively, confirming they’d both heard it. Peter sits up and squints across the room to the open space that leads to the kitchen. He can’t make out much, the farther from the light of the lamp and TV, the darker and more obscured everything becomes. All he can make out is the faint outline of shapes. There’s no other sound.

Shrugging, Kaine goes back to the movie, settling back down without worry. Peter keeps his eyes on the space for a little longer before doing the same, chalking it up to regular noises an old house makes. His paranoia has been even worse lately, especially with the  _ haunting _ he’s currently experiencing. The thing is, Peter hasn’t been able to even  _ glimpse _ whatever it is, so he doesn’t know if it’s a ghost or a demon or… something else. 

Everyone’s scared of the dark or things that go bump in the night, kids even more so than adults. (At least, Peter likes to think so. Hopes, really. Because then when he’s an adult he won’t feel like this anymore.) Peter has more reason than others to be scared, but this paranoia thing is making him see things that aren’t there, or feel like he’s being watched when he’s doing the most mundane of things in the middle of the day. He doesn’t feel safe anymore. Not anywhere or anytime. 

His therapist would have a field day if he admitted that, but he doesn’t need her to tell him how to fix himself. He can figure that out on his own. Nobody knows him better than, well,  _ him _ , so it makes sense to think that he should be in charge of the repairs. (Not that he’s broken, because he’s not. Just a little frayed around the edges. Like a well-used book. He’s just a little tired, just a little jumpy.)

It’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t know if there even is a…  _ whatever _ haunting him, or just his fear-fueled imagination. Take Kaine for instance, he’d thought nothing of the sound just a moment ago, familiar with living in a house that creaked and moaned, but here was Peter, heart beginning to race and limbs growing restless as he imagined the worst possible scenarios. He didn’t have a problem.  _ He didn’t _ .

The light flickers. Kaine barely blinks, but Peter jumps violently in his seat. This draws Kaine’s attention more than the light did, who then stares at his brother like he’s crazy.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Peter levels a venomous glare at his little brother, “There’s nothing wrong with me! Don’t be stupid! Why would you even say that?” It’s wildly aggressive and overdramatic, but there’s no taking it back once it’s out of his mouth.

Kaine, predictably, responds in kind. “I’m not stupid! You’re stupid,  _ stupid _ ! You’ve acting weird lately and it’s annoying!”

“I have not! I’m acting normal, you’re the one who’s annoying!”

Kaine scoffs, and it’s a mean sound, “As  _ if _ . Normal? Keep telling yourself that.”

The movie is forgotten, TV explosions turned to white noise. Peter feels something in his chest clench, and it feels a lot like fear. It’s odd, because he’s not scared of Kaine and he never has been. He doesn’t even think Kaine could hurt him - not seriously, anyway. So there’s no fear of that, either. But his brother’s words make him tense, causing his hackles to rise and defensive rage to bubble in his throat. 

Peter is normal. He’s fine. He’s normal. Everything is okay. The Illusory Truth Effect states that if he repeats it enough, eventually he’ll believe it to be true.  _ Lie, lie, lie, but never admit it’s a lie.  _ (It’s not a lie. It’s not.)

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, as usual.” Peter huffs, taking a jab at Kaine’s recent report card. “What do you know about  _ normal _ anyway?”

“Shut up, Peter, I mean it! Your  _ dumbassery  _ is contagious.”

Peter gapes at the swear falling from his little brother’s lips, “You said a bad word! You really  _ are _ stupid!”

“Quit calling me stupid!” Kaine rises from his spot on the couch, getting in Peter’s face. “I’m not stupid!”

The heated air dissipates at the sound of wood scraping against linoleum. Simultaneously, the two turn towards the kitchen. Visually, nothing has changed. The big, doorless arch leading into the room is still barely visible, as is the rest of the interior. But there is no mistaking the fact that a noise had come from within, as clear as day. It vividly reminds Peter of breakfast, when everyone is pulling out their chairs to sit at the table and wolf down cereal before school. Except no one had come down the stairs - at least, not that they’d noticed - and someone had definitely just seated themselves at the kitchen table.

Peter can think of a lot of reasons not to investigate, the main one being the sheer amount of fear coursing through his whole body. The countless possibilities send his heart rate skyrocketing. He could scream for his Aunt and Uncle, it’s one of the few nights they’re both home for the night at the same time and they’d no doubt come running if they heard his caterwauling. Or he could run to his room, to Ben and the higher population the upstairs offered. But that meant passing by the open kitchen and risking the chance of getting attacked by whatever was in there.

Kaine brushes by him, knocking Peter from his thoughts. There’s a determined expression on his brother’s face, though his skin looks pale with fear. It’s not often that Peter sees Kaine scared, he can barely recall a time after the incident with their parents all those years ago. Despite the fear, his little brother is walking right into the lion’s den, rather than standing around frozen with terror like Peter is. 

He feels an ugly emotion curl in his gut, like bad food. It’s  _ shame _ . Shame and rage at his own powerlessness, as well as jealousy towards Kaine, who can push through while Peter struggles.  _ He’s _ supposed to be the big brother, the one protecting his siblings. Not the other way around. 

Kaine makes it under the arch, his body all but swallowed by the dark of the room. It’s an unsettling thing to witness, and Peter finds he doesn’t much appreciate the imagery. He takes a deep breath, deep enough to make his ribs ache, then steps forward. Each step is a little easier than the last, until he’s almost upon his little brother, who’s feeling along the wall for the light switch, brave enough to approach but not yet brave enough to enter. He clings to the entry frame and runs his hand along the inside wall, only allowing his arm into the kitchen space.

Peter doesn’t think he’d have the guts to even do that. 

There’s a clicking sound - Kaine flipping the switch. But no light follows. Peter just barely makes out the downward curve of Kaine’s mouth as he tries again, flipping the light switch up and down a few times as if it’ll bring about a different result. Nothing. Kaine turns and meets Peter’s eyes, offering up a shrug and poorly hidden trepidation.

“Maybe the bulb blew out?” he offers, the anger they’d both felt just a minute before completely forgotten. “And that’s what made the noise?”

Peter frowns, “While the lights were off? No way. Doesn’t really make much of a sound either, unless it’s the bulb shattering.”

“...and it sounded like a chair.” Kaine adds, shifting on his toes.

“And it sounded like a chair.” Peter confirms, peering into the gloom of a room he’d never found scary before. It’s seems unnaturally dark, even though there’s a window over the kitchen sink letting in the barest hint of moonlight. Peter can barely make out the shape of the table, chairs and counters even as he stands right at the threshold, much less the figure of whatever could possible be messing with them. He’s used to everything giving off its own glow; maybe harder to see in the dark, but always offering the faintest illumination.

_ Unless it’s a black soul. _ They don’t glow, they swallow light around them like a black hole. (Eating, eating, eating.) He swallows, fingers trembling and beating out a senseless pattern on his thigh. He doesn’t want it. If there’s another black-souled creature trying to hurt him in his own home, he thinks he might cry. And Peter really hates crying. So little time between this and last -- then again, all bad things come in threes.

“Lets just go upstairs.” Peter whispers, “In the morning we’ll tell Uncle Ben the kitchen light went out.”  _ Assuming it stays that way. _

Kaine turns his gaze back to the black hole before them, before glancing behind to the living room. “We left the TV on… and the lamp.”

“I’ll get it.” Peter says, “Go up the stairs and turn the hall light on.”

The length of the stairs runs perpendicular to the wall holding the entryway to the kitchen, the bottom of them being on the other end of the room, by the front door. To the right of the bottom of the stairs was a hallway only three feet deep, housing Teresa’s bedroom door and, subsequently, her room. He feels torn in leaving her down here with this thing, but she’s never said anything about being bothered at night. Teresa is actually the sibling who seems to experience the least amount of supernatural interference. 

What’s most unfortunate about the current situation is the fact that there’s only one light switch that will illuminate the upstairs hall and stairway, and it’s at the top of said stairs. 

Peter moves away from the kitchen and towards the TV. The remote isn’t on the coffee table, but he manages to locate it pretty quickly, half-way wedged between the two sofa cushions. He flips off  _ Terminator 2 _ and drops the remote back onto the couch. He glances back to see that Kaine hasn’t moved.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, keeping his voice low. “Go turn on the hall light.”  _ Before my courage fails me _ , he doesn’t say. 

“I think someone’s there.” Kaine replies, voice sounding odd. “Someone standing by the sink.”

“What?” Peter barely keeps himself from shouting. “The sink? Not ten feet from where you’re standing? And you’re  _ still standing there? _ ”

Forget the lamp, he’s ready to bolt back over to Kaine and run them straight out of the house. As scared as he is, he couldn’t do that. There’s no way he’d leave the rest of his family in here, or fall prey to another black-souled creature.  _ No way. No WAY. _

Kaine is going to turn on the hall light and Peter will turn off the lamp and bolt through the dark living room and up the stairs to safety, where they’ll both finally settle in for bed and forget this ever happened. 

Now if only Kaine would move.

“Kaine,” Peter snaps, “The light!”

His little brother finally looks away from the gaping darkness, one hand still on the frame of the archway. His eyes meet Peter’s and he opens his mouth to snap back, nose wrinkled in indignation - only for a ghoulish hand to emerge from the dark and grip the front of his pajama shirt. Peter sees his brother’s eyes go wide, wide enough that he can see the whites of them flash in the dark, and hears Kaine let out a scream.

The younger Parker disappears into the kitchen, the darkness swallowing his form whole. For a moment Peter is frozen in shock, unable to believe what he’s just witnessed. The moment drags on an unpleasant amount of time - but maybe Peter’s perception of time has just slowed.

Kaine is still screaming, and the screeching sound of chairs scraping across the floor and drawers slamming open and shut becomes deafening. Moment over, Peter lunges forward, checking his hip on the arm of the couch in his hurry. His socked feet slap against the ground and he slides unsteadily to a stop before the divide between the living room and kitchen, hesitating again. It’s so dark Peter can’t even see the window by the sink anymore. It’s as if the entire room has been filled with solid black fog. 

_ Come on, Peter, _ he thinks, psyching himself up.  _ That’s your little brother in there. _

“Hey!” he yells, but it’s weak and his voice cracks with fear. He coughs, clearing his throat. “HEY!” This time it’s stronger, and he takes a step into the kitchen.

The sounds stop. Peter wonders why he doesn’t hear the thundering footsteps of his Aunt and Uncle coming. Surely they would have been woken by the current disaster. 

“Kaine?” he calls, taking another tentative step into the dark. “Kaine, where are you? Answer me!”

He hears a groan, but can’t tell where it’s coming from. Sounds feels distorted here. He moves cautiously, hands out in front of him. “Come on, Kaine, answer me!”

There’s so much fear running through his veins he almost feels numb to it, which can only be from the adrenaline. Sweat beads at his temple and slips down the back of his neck. His entire body feels both hot and cold, hands trembling. It’s getting hard to breathe, and Peter left his inhaler up in their bedroom. 

There is, perhaps, nothing scarier than being in a pitch black room—that you  _ know _ isn’t that big—while it’s occupied by an unknown creature with enough power to toss around a ten-year-old like he’s a box of tissues. No matter where he is,  _ it _ can’t be more than ten or twelve feet away, likely closer. Peter swallows, throat painfully dry. All the liquid in his body is being leaked out of his pores and eyes. He doesn’t bother wiping away the tears of terror, it’s not like he can see anyway.

Peter is sick of being scared. It never helps, not him and certainly not his brother, who’s the one in trouble right now. He may not be able to do much against humans, who barely feel supernatural elements unless they possess a  _ Sixth Sense _ , but he can certainly do something against whatever  _ this _ is. Peter’s betting on malicious ghost. And ghosts he can handle.

Shutting his eyes, he turns his focus inward. With his heartbeat thudding in his ears, he almost misses the sound of footsteps approaching him from the front. Slow and steady.

_ Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. _

Peter grits his teeth and turns that growing, impossibly dense fear into something useful. Anger. He fuels the fire within him with it, until it grows into an inferno, bursting forth from his skin and shooting out, untamed and shapeless. 

It hurts a bit, like he’s stretching farther than he’s meant or overworking a muscle. He can see the brightness even with his eyes squeezed shut, can feel the heat of it like a warm blanket. Whatever has approached him screeches, and it sounds like the squeal of tires when you hit the brakes too fast. Peter slaps his hands over his ears reflexively, eyes cracking open. All he can make out is the gruesome, twisting shape of a pale, blurry figure. It writhes and howls, limbs looking impossibly long as they flail about and beat at its own body.

_ Go. _ He thinks, pushing that thought to the forefront of his mind so it might seep into the white-hot energy pouring from his flesh.  _ Get out of here. _

With a sharp  _ pop _ , the figure disappears. The kitchen light flickers on. Peter blinks in surprise, the energy snapping back into his body with enough force to make him stumble backwards. At the same time, he hears a loud thud to his left. Frantically wiping his tears from his eyes, Peter clears his vision enough to see his little brother crumpled on the floor. Looking around carefully, Peter can’t see what would have made such a noise, unless it was his brother falling. But where could he have fallen from?

Still suspicious but trusting, for the moment, in his mystery ability, Peter bolts to his brother’s motionless form.

“Kaine!” he gasps, shaking the other boy’s shoulder. When it doesn’t immediately rouse him, Peter shakes a little harder, “Hey! C’mon, wake up! Kaine!”

“Ugh…” Kaine groans, stirring. He looks pale and sickly, but he’s alive and at this point in time, that’s a win. “Wha..”

“You’re okay,” Peter murmurs, pulling his brother up from the floor. Kaine leans heavily against Peter, motions slow and groggy, like he’d just been woken from a deep sleep. “I got you.”

He closes his arms around his little brother, holding close. They haven’t hugged in what seems like ages - in fact, Peter can’t even remember the last time it happened. After tonight, however, he thinks he can get away with it. After a few seconds, Kaine’s returns the hug, his arms clasped tight to Peter’s back and his face buried in Peter’s shoulder. 

They both breathe deeply, ignoring the way the other shakes and sniffles. Peter feels the beat of his brother’s heart against his chest and under the palm pressed to Kaine’s back. He is warm and alive and Peter feels, in that very second, that he would run into a million dark rooms if it meant being able to hold his brother like this instead of burying him in the ground.

“You’re okay,” he repeats. “I got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly early chapter but I couldn’t resist! I might still post Tuesday too...


	7. kick start

_ "If you have no enemies, you have no character. Taking a stand always creates opposition." _

\- Paul Newman

* * *

The house is eerily quiet for weeks after that. Thing is, Peter isn’t sure if he destroyed the creature or if it fled. As far as he knows there isn’t really a rulebook for this, so he’s kinda figuring things out as he goes. While some part of him would feel  _ special _ knowing that he’s the only one of his kind, it seems highly unlikely. There has to be  _ someone _ out there who can tell him more about the supernatural world… or about his abilities. In all of human existence, he can’t be the  _ first _ . The probability is near astronomical. (So he assumes.)

He eats his breakfast without even thinking. The kitchen in the daytime doesn’t have the same aura as the kitchen at night. Neither he nor Kaine have spent much time downstairs after dark these past few weeks, so he can’t really attest to any change to that fact. If the creature is gone, there shouldn’t be much of a problem. It’s actually almost weird how normal he feels, shoveling spoonfuls of Cheerios into his mouth while Uncle Ben reads the paper and Teresa spills milk on her raggedy old bunny in an attempt to help him drink. It’s a busy morning as usual, the house full for once at this hour. Aunt May had even bought muffins the previous day for them all to enjoy -- chocolate chip. A family favorite. 

“Oh dear,” Aunt May says, napkins in hand. “He looks like he’s going to need a wash soon.”

Teresa frowns, then pulls her bunny to her chest, inevitably dampening her pajama shirt with milk. “No! Charleston just needs a napkin!”

She takes one from Aunt May and pats Charleston’s front carefully, with all the tenderness of a young child with their favorite toy. Or pet. Aunt May mops up the rest of the milk spill on the table, a placating grin on her face.

“You don’t think he needs a bath?” she pushes.

Teresa looks torn for a moment. “I can do that.”

“He’ll get  _ moldy _ ,” Kaine sneers. “Not that it’s even possible for him to get any grosser.”

Teresa gasps, “Hey!” Then lobs her used napkin over the table at him. Kaine throws his own in retaliation. It misses and lands on the floor.

“Now, son,” Uncle Ben begins, tone chiding. Kaine looks back down to his cereal but doesn’t apologize for the jab. Aunt May picks the napkin up from the floor and tosses all of them away. 

“We can put him in the dryer after,” Aunt May continues like the little argument had never occurred, too used to the sibling riff-raff, “He’ll have fun, promise.”

Teresa blinks and looks at Charleston, staring into his one remaining eye. She’s silent for a beat too long, just enough to make it awkward. Then she nods, decisive. “Ok. He says it’s fine.”

“Wonderful,” Aunt May gently takes the plush from Teresa’s offering hands, “He’ll be right as rain by the time you get back from school.”

Uncle Ben folds his newspaper, setting it down on the table beside his plate. “Which we should be heading out for now, if we don’t want you kids to be late.”

All the kids around the table groan, but dutifully begin to put their dishes in the sink and finish their morning activities. Peter is the last to the sink, and he puts his plate atop the others and sets his utensils carefully beside the rest, so he isn’t subjected to the harsh sound of metal on metal. He looks behind him, through the archway and into the living room, where his siblings are tugging on their shoes and jackets, backpacks strewn across the ground at the door. 

Aunt May puts a hand on his shoulder, “Hurry up now, Peter.”

“Mmkay,” he murmurs, leaving the sink. Still, he pauses at the room divide and looks back at her. She’s started on the dishes, hair piled up in a messy bun. The light from the window outlines her frame with a white glow, making it almost impossible to see her soul. He remembers, distantly, feeling like everything bad happened only to him or to the young. But then his parents were possessed and murdered and he hadn’t even considered that they’d be at risk, perhaps too young to understand. Now, however, he’s acutely aware of the fact that humans are nothing in the face of the supernatural. With the schedules they all adhere to, it’s not often someone is home alone. 

The house feels fine for the most part. He’s still paranoid beyond belief. This whole situation has, if anything, helped take his mind off of the  _ other thing _ . The thing that will not be named. The thing that he’s completely over and done with,  _ really _ .

It still feels weird leaving her in the house alone. Peter has already lost one mother, he doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost another.

He’s the last one out, earning him door duty. As he’s shutting it his eye catches on Teresa’s plush bunny, Charleston. It’s sitting up on the kitchen island, facing his direction. He doesn’t think much of it, not until he’s already locked the front door and is half-way in the car. But then he faintly remembers that the plush had been on its side, placed on the island carelessly by Aunt May after she’d taken it from Teresa. From the corner of his eye, he glances at his little sister, who is staring out the window at the passing world without a care. She’s humming a tune he’s never heard. For some inexplicable reason, he feels unsettled. That feeling is only exacerbated when he turns his eyes a little to the side and meets her gaze in the window’s reflection. She smiles at him toothily.

He swallows and turns away.

* * *

When Peter and his siblings get home from school, Aunt May seems mostly okay. He observes her closely, wondering if anything had rattled her while she’d been home alone, but she doesn’t give anything away. Teresa is reunited with a freshly cleaned Charleston. Peter goes up to his room and wonders what changed. When he’d first moved in, he’d been almost obsessive in his drive to find out how to protect himself. The lack of incidents for years had lulled him into a false sense of security.

He’s staring at the walls when he realizes something. Something so integral and obvious that he can’t even believe he missed it. After  _ Skip, _ they’d reorganized the whole bedroom; repainted the walls, gotten new sheets, cleaned the whole place top-to-bottom -- which meant… that all those little hidden symbols he’d once had were gone. He’d had little protective symbols on the walls, innocuous in the corners of the room, but they’d been destroyed upon being painted over. A lot of the symbols he’d scrawled on stray papers had been thrown away -- and he’s tearing apart the shared desk drawers in this very moment. Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. Sheer dread encompasses him, as does a growing anger at himself. How could he be so stupid? He’d been so caught up in… in the aftermath. In  _ whatever, _ that he’d forgotten about everything else. 

“Crap, crap,” he mutters, grabbing a sharpie from the desk and meticulously scrawling both the Eye of Hamsa and the Star of David in every corner of the room, just above the base moulding. He even crawls under the bunk and Kaine’s bed. What he needs is sage, and some kind of protective verse. He has no materials, no holy water or oil or herbs. Uncle Ben has a Tanakh, Aunt May a bible, but Peter isn’t trained in exorcism, nor is there much public research on the fact.

“Peter,” Ben pokes his head in the room. “What are you doing?”

“Ben,” Peter breathes out a sigh, “Have you seen anything in your dreams lately?”

His brother adopts a look of contemplation, “Uh… nothing too important really, why?”

“Nothing, really?” Peter presses, “Even the smallest thing matters.”

“Well… I have been dreaming of Teresa’s bunny a bit. It’s kind of funny, I get the strangest feeling it’s watching me sometimes -- which is even weirder since it only has one eye.” Ben’s lips quirk into a weak smile. “And it’s a button.”

Peter crosses his arms, “I think it’s possessed.”

Ben steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “Oh, awesome. Tell me how you came to such a conclusion.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, if you say it’s possessed, then it’s possessed.” Ben scratches his cheek absentmindedly. “It’s just, if I were a super-powerful ghost guy, I wouldn’t choose some ratty old bunny as my vessel. The juxtaposition is kinda hilarious, you have to admit.”

It is. “Forget that,” Peter says. “Focus on the very real and very serious problem here. Teresa.”

“Oh.” His brother says, as though the fact that their sister could be in danger had never occurred to him. Why would it? She’d missed out on every other supernatural experience, or so they thought. She just didn’t… seem connected to their world. “Oh man, oh no. What do we do? Throw it away? But she loves that thing!”

“Somehow I doubt throwing it away will work. I’m pretty sure I saw it  _ move. _ ” Peter confides, glancing around nervously as if expecting the bunny to magically appear in their room. Ben looks suitably unnerved by the fact and does his own glancing around.

“Cool, cool, cool,” Ben mutters. “Hate everything about that.”

Peter snorts. “You and me both.”

“Ok, so, plan of attack?”

Their bedroom door swings open. Both boys jump, Ben letting out a high pitched noise. Kaine stares from the doorway in exasperated amusement.

“Wow, didn’t think your voice could even  _ go _ that high, Benny.” he smirks, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot. “What’re you nerds talking about?”

“Nothing.” Peter says.

“Ghosts.” Ben exclaims.

Kaine looks between the two of them, before his gaze settles on Peter. “Alright, fill me in.”

“What? No.” Peter shakes his head. “No way.”

“What’aya mean  _ no _ ?” Kaine snaps, hands on his hips. “You don’t get to just say  _ no, _ especially if there’s a ghost in the house! In case you forgot, we got our asses kicked by one a few weeks ago, and if he’s still here than I deserve to know.”

“ _ You _ got your ass kicked by a ghost a few weeks ago,” Peter corrects, not intending it to sound as malicious as it does, “And the same thing will probably happen again!”

“What, because I don’t have ‘powers’ like you and Ben? Is that it?”

“Kaine, come on..” Ben mutters, attempting to diffuse the situation. He puts his hands up between the other two. “It’s not that…”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think it is.” Kaine snarls, a flush creeping up his neck. “Admit it, you think I can’t take care of myself. You think I need  _ protecting _ , is that it?”

“Yes!” Peter exclaims, ignoring Ben’s frantically waving hands. 

Kaine gets up in Peter’s face. “Well I don’t! I can handle myself just fine!”

Peter matches his little brother’s ferocity with his own. “Are you sure? It didn’t seem like it a few weeks ago.”

“Things’ll be different this time. I’m prepared now!” 

Peter scoffs, “To do what? It’s a ghost!”

“Guys, come on--” Ben tries to interject again. “Seriously, we shouldn’t be arguing about this. Especially not so loud.”

“You don’t get it,” Kaine murmurs, glaring at the two of them. “I can be just as useful as you guys, ghost power or not.”

“ _ Sixth Sense _ .” Peter corrects.

Kaine rolls his eyes. “Whatever, you know what I meant.”

“I do. And I still think it’s dangerous.”

“I’m invisible.” Ben huffs. “You’re ignoring me on purpose, aren’t you.”

Peter swallows. “Listen, Kaine. I know you’re capable. It’s not about that. But I have an ability to fight back where others can’t, and you…”

“Yeah, what?” His little brother goads, tense for a fight.

“Do you know what it was like, seeing you get grabbed like that? Wandering into that room and not knowing where you are or even if you were alive?” Peter lets the words out, the ones he’s been keeping close to his chest. The dam is broken. He just wants his little brother to  _ see. _ This is Peter’s fault and he needs to fix it. “This ghost got in here because I lost control of our security, and you almost paid the price for it. I have to fix it, I  _ have _ to.”

Kaine is quiet, his dark gaze searching Peter’s face. He, too, remembers how it felt in that room, how it felt to wake up safe in his older brother’s arms and wonder about what had just happened to him, or what  _ could _ have happened. 

“You think I blame you?” he asks, voice far more subdued that it was moments prior. “You think I care about how that thing got in?”

“Kaine--”

“Shut up, Peter.” Kaine interrupts. “This guilt thing is really pissing me off. We all live in this house together, alright? Don’t think keeping everyone safe is your problem.”

“Yeah, Pete. We all deserve a chance to be able to protect ourselves first.” Ben puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You shoulder everything on your own, especially after…”

“After what?” Peter asks, gruff and already knowing the answer.

Ben purses his lips and, after a moment, shakes his head. “Nothing, Pete. Just get outside of your head every once in a while, alright? You’re not alone. Don’t know how you could forget that when we literally sleep in the same room.”

Kaine shifts on his feet, looking grumpy. “...Sorry, I guess. For yelling.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Peter replies. “For… all that.”

Ben claps his hands together to break the tension in the room. “Alright! We’re all made up! So,” he pulls Kaine and Peter close, ignoring their grumbling. “What’s the game plan?”

Peter looks at the two of them, jaw set with determination. “We gotta go catch ourselves a rabbit.”

* * *

The task, as it turns out, is easier said than done. Teresa is never without Charleston. She doesn’t let him out of her sight  _ ever, _ even when going to the bathroom. Not only does this put a damper on their slapstick plan, but it makes it almost impossible to get rid of the thing without confronting their little sister. Meanwhile, Charleston seems to get more menacing by the second. It’s absolutely ridiculous, feeling afraid of an old stuffed bunny that’s less than a foot tall. Yet here they are.

Teresa even takes Charleston to  _ school. _ She’s stopped talking about her friends, stopped spending time with the family, and holes herself up in her room. Peter once pressed his ear to the door and heard her speaking, presumably to Charleston. What scared him the most was the fact that he could make out another voice -- just barely. He ran away not a moment later, when Teresa had asked, “What do you mean someone’s listening?”

Luckily, there are no more incidents in the shared Parker boy’s bedroom. As far as Peter knows, the protective symbols are doing their job, but he’s doubtful that they’re really powerful enough on their own to keep a creature like that at bay forever. Not when he’d seen the extent of what it can do.

“What if I just take it.” Kaine suggests. 

They’re huddled near the stairs, a far too suspicious triad in the eyes of anyone who might see. Teresa is across the room in front of the TV, watching her near-daily dose of Care Bears. Charleston is in her lap and this time she’s sitting on the couch rather than on the floor in front of the screen. Her face is blank. In all her life, she’s never been emotionless. Teresa is a bit like Kaine, in that she’s very open in what she feels rather than bottling it up. She is, obviously, far more happy-go-lucky than her brother. The point is, she’s been acting different recently and it’s both noticeable and worrying. The cause is the  _ bunny _ . 

Or rather, the ghost possessing it.

“No,” Ben whispers back. “Who knows how she’ll react.”

“Or what it could do in retaliation…” Peter mutters. “Then there’s the fact that she has an unidentified  _ Sixth Sense _ .” 

“Maybe the ghost is gone and her Sixth Sense is being able to talk to stuffed animals.” Kaine mutters, half-joking, half-hoping. 

Ben huffs, “I wish.” 

“So, what. We take it while she sleeps?”

Peter glances down at Kaine, surprised. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Kaine narrows his eyes, “I’m trying not to feel offended.”

“Forget that,” Ben pokes both of them in the gut, causing them to squirm away reflexively. “Focus. New plan: we steal it tonight. It’s friday so we won’t have to worry about school in the morning.”

“Aunt May has a night shift, so she’ll be gone until around 6am. It’s Uncle Ben we’ll have to watch out for.” Peter murmurs.

“And the ghost.” Kaine drawls.

Peter makes a face. “And the ghost.” 

“What are you boys doing down there?”

The three of them whirl around in sync, looking up the stairs with identical wide-eyed expressions. Aunt May is at the top of the steps with a basket of laundry perched on her hips and a raised brow.

“Get out of the doorway, your Uncle will be home any minute.” she scolds lightly, before making her way down. 

The three of them scramble away out of the way to let her pass. On nights like these she usually naps before work, so it’s a surprise to see her up.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks, trying to sound innocent. “Don’t you have work tonight?”

“Oh, yes,” she sighs, squeezing past them to walk towards the kitchen, where the door to the downstairs bathroom - slash - laundry room is. “I just couldn’t settle down knowing I had this last thing to do, it would have kept me up.” Then she glances back at them, eyes narrowing. “Why, are you boys up to something?”

“No!” they chorus, acting more and more like the triplets they’re constantly mistaken for. 

She watches them skeptically for a few more seconds before shrugging and continuing on her way. “Whatever it is, your Uncle will have to deal with it.”

With that, she disappears into the kitchen and off to the side. The three brothers breathe out a sigh of relief. 

“Nailed it.” Ben mutters under his breath. Kaine elbows him in the gut. “Ow.”

* * *

Later that night sees the three of them wide awake and tucked into bed, listening as their Aunt moves around downstairs and prepares to leave. It’s almost 10pm, and Uncle Ben is already out like a light. He has the day off tomorrow so he’s taking a much needed rest. As far as they know, Teresa is asleep already. How she could ever relax enough around a demon bunny is beyond him, but knowing her she probably thought she’d befriended it. 

The front door closes. Peter sits up in bed, glancing over the railing of the top bunk. Kaine sits up as well and meets his eyes. 

“Ready?” he whispers.

His little brother nods, while his twin makes a sound of confirmation. Peter quickly makes his way down the ladder, taking care to avoid the squeakiest rungs. Ben and Kaine are all set to go when he reaches the floor. It’s a little exhilarating, like they’re on a super secret spy mission. Also terrifying, because all their lives potentially hang in the balance. No pressure.

They sneak down the hall, one after the other, all of them taking care not to step on any super creaky spots on the floor. Their Aunt and Uncle’s bedroom door is open just a crack, the sound of Uncle Ben’s snoring just barely audible. They manage to get all the way down the stairs without incident, heart rates skyrocketing as they maneuver through the dark. The only light they have is whatever manages to filter in through the windows, and the moon isn’t offering much tonight. Peter hates how scared he feels even with his two brothers at his back, memories of the incident a few weeks ago replaying in his head. It doesn’t help his anxiety.

He pauses right before Teresa’s door. It’s quiet, almost unsettlingly so. Quite honestly, he hadn’t expected to make it all the way down here so easily. He’s actually expecting this to be a disaster - even as he hopes for the opposite.

“What’re you waiting for?” Kaine whispers, pressing close impatiently. 

“Nothing.” Peter whispers back, forcing himself to move. He grasps the doorknob and turns it slowly. It’s one of those old, cast-iron looking ones that’s more oval than spherical. 

It’s cold to the touch.

Though he tries his best, the door still creaks a bit when he opens it. All the boys wince, but when the door is fully open it reveals a still sleeping Teresa. Ben lets out a sigh of relief.

Shuffling forward, the three of them make their way into the room. Teresa’s bedroom is purple, a shade of lilac that reminds Peter of the lighter end of Ben’s soul. She has plenty of stuffed animals -- the same ones she’s had since she was a baby and they were still living with their parents. Her sheets are a mix of spring colors, blush pink and pale green, decorated with butterflies and flowers. They’re a few years old, well-worn and fading. Their little sister is spread-eagle on her bed, the sheets tangled in her limbs. Her mouth is half-open and a spot of drool is forming on her pillow. 

She’s out like a light. Hopefully it’ll stay that way.

“Where’s the bunny?” Kaine hisses under his breath. 

They fan out around the room, peeking wherever they can in search of the ratty old bunny. Peter peers over Teresa’s sleeping form, but it’s obvious there aren’t any stuffed animals on her bed, they’ve been knocked to the floor or are lined up on her dresser. Peter counts three different Care Bears, two cats and a dog plush on the ground. No bunny. 

He glances over at Ben, who’s going through the ones on the dresser. His brother meets his gaze and shakes his head.  _ Negative. _ Kaine shoves a few articles of clothes to the side, picking his way through the slightly messy room. His frown deepens by the second.

“It’s not here?” Ben murmurs in surprise, his brow furrowed.

Peter begins to feel increasingly agitated. Of  _ course _ something like this is happening. “Where could it be?”

At that moment, three knocks ring out. They aren’t particularly loud knocks, but there is no doubting what they were or where they came from. The three of them turn in unison towards the door. It still stands wide open, ominously exposing the sheer blackness of the room beyond. The faint glow of the moon that had dimly illuminated their path on the way is now nonexistent, as if someone had pulled all the curtains closed.

...and blocked out the tiny diamond-shaped window on the front door.

Peter shifts nervously, realizing how similar the current situation is to the one a few weeks ago. Kaine seems to notice the same thing, as he visibly tenses up and eyes the doorway with growing trepidation. 

Both of the startle when Ben speaks, his voice oddly soft and distant. “It’s out there.”

His eyes are glimmering a now-familiar gold, soul pulsing. It’s nothing new to Peter, but Kaine seems slightly captivated by the sight of his brother’s glow-stick eyeballs. 

“Is it in the kitchen again?” Peter asks, taking care to keep quiet. Teresa’s soft breathing reminds him of where he is and how bad of an idea it is to wake her up right now.

“No,” Ben replies, equally quiet, “In the living room.”

In soundless agreement, they move to leave the room. Kaine closes the door behind them, making a face at the thunk the doorknob makes.

“So,” he says when they’re standing in the entranceway, at the cusp of the living room. “That’s a pretty nifty ability. I like the, uh, glow thing.”

Ben manages a smile, blinking rapidly. With every blink the light dims, until his eyes turn back to their regular brown. “Thanks. I think it adds to the whole aesthetic.”

Peter rolls his eyes, unseen in the dark. Of course they’d find time for casual conversation when a  _ literal murder ghost _ was waiting for them across the room. 

“Can you just… do it? On purpose? I thought it was a dream thing?” Kaine asks.

“Well,” Ben begins, “It’s really--”

“Can we save the questions for a time when we’re not in mortal danger?” Peter interrupts.

Ben clears his throat, “Right, yeah.” 

“Sorry.” Kaine grunts.

Surprisingly, the tense atmosphere was broken by their ease of conversation. Peter doesn’t feel as scared anymore, not with them at his back. He walks forward into the dark, just barely able to make out the shapes of the couch, armchair and coffee table. The lamp is at the far end, so he’d have to traverse across the entire room to turn it on, and by then the ghost would already be up in his business. It probably wouldn’t even turn on, like the kitchen lights.

When he’s about half-way across, foot-steps near silent and his brothers matching him step for step, the TV flickers on. It illuminates the space before it with harsh white light and reveals the figure of a person hunched just before it, in the space where Teresa usually sits even though Aunt May tells her not to. Peter freezes in his tracks, startled by the abruptness and absolutely terrified.

The fear is like ice in his veins, locking his limbs and making him  _ useless _ . He can’t even make himself turn away and run. Doesn’t even know if he’d fight back if the ghost attacked. 

Why is he like this? Why does he let his fear take control of him? How can he, after what  _ happened? _ He knows very well what not fighting back leads to, knows it enough to never want to end up like that again.

The figure’s head starts to turn, features indistinguishable. It’s entire form is impossible to make out, black and backlit by the light of the TV. Just before its head turns enough to face their direction, the TV turns off. 

Ben lets out a gasp that sounds far too loud in the sudden silence and Peter flinches. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, so loud and overpowering that he fears he won’t be able to hear anything else. The sudden removal of light has turned everything even darker, the simple shapes he’d been able to make out before now dissipated into sheer black. He blinks rapidly, hoping his eyes will adjust. 

He doesn’t want to be ruled by fear anymore.

Peter takes a step forward, blind and terrified. 

The TV turns back on. Now there is no figure before it, just a ratty old bunny plush. Charleston. Peter swallows, stepping towards the plush. His youngest brother steps even closer and reaches for it. 

“No!” Peter hisses, but it’s too late.

Kaine grabs the plush and just as his fingers curl around the torso of it, a hand reaches out from under the TV stand and grasps his wrist. Immediately he cries out and tries to jerk away.

“Kaine!” Ben gasps, no longer caring about keeping his voice until control. He lunges forward without thought to grab his young brother, intent on pulling him away.

They’re both suddenly thrown about three feet away in a pile of limbs, groaning and struggling to right themselves. Peter fights the immediate instinct to go check on them, and instead focuses on the bunny and the hand. Its fingers tap one at a time on the ground, like he’s seen adults do when they’re getting impatient. The hand is washed-out gray, with deep grooves in the skin that look like they’re bleeding ash. The fingernails are broken and uneven, each one a deep black. They aren’t painted -- no, they look more like a badly bruised nail, the way Uncle Ben’s toenail had looked after he dropped a weight on his foot. Another hand joins the first, and they grab at the floor like they’re scrambling for purchase. The fingers press into the floor and drag more of the arms out into the light. 

Peter’s heartbeat is shaking his entire body. Around his neck, resting against the skin of his collarbone, is the Star of David. It’s made of iron and is one of the only religious artifacts that Peter owns. While he’s not much for God, the Star of David is both a protective symbol -- and made of a metal that wards away ghosts. 

“W-Why, O Lord, do You stand aloof, heedless in times of t-trouble?” his voice trembles, betraying his fear. “The w-wicked in... his arrogance hounds the lowly— may they, uh, be caught in the schemes they devise.”

He wracks his mind for the next part, wondering how a Psalm he’d memorized could flee his mind in his time of need. A head appears, the fingers still slowly walking themselves forward and pulling more and more of the creature out from beneath the TV. The head is face down, near-bald with a few clumps of dark, greasy hair clinging to flaking scalp. 

“The wicked crows about his unbridled lusts; the grasping man reviles and scorns the Lord.” Ben continues, picking up where Peter left off. He comes to stand beside Peter, face pale and fingers shaking. 

The ghost twitches, limbs rolling in a full body shiver. Before another word can leave their mouths, its head jerks up, revealing a ghoulish face out of their worst nightmares. The armchair springs out into its reclining position. 

Peter can’t stop the scream that escapes him.

“The wicked, arrogant as he is, in all his scheming thinks,  _ He does not call to account; God does not care. _ ” Ben keeps speaking, reciting Psalm 10 with perfect recall. Peter doesn’t know how Ben’s managing to keep his voice steady, unless he’s not nervous because he’s seen how this will all end.

The coffee table begins to shake. The leftover magazines go flying, smacking against their arms violently. The room feels like it’s dropped twenty degrees in a split second.

“I think it’s getting angry,” Kaine comments, trying his best to keep his balance as all the furniture in the room begins to tremble, and the photos on the wall begin to clatter viciously on their hooks, threatening to tumble to the ground and shatter.

“No shit!” Peter snaps, voice cracking. “ _ His ways prosper at all times; Your judgments are far beyond him; he snorts at all his foes! _ ”

Finally, the words come back to him. He’s steadily grounding himself, even as the world seems to fall apart around him and his breath becomes visible in the air. For the moment, at least, he refuses to let fear rule him. Fear has taken too much from him already, it’s time he learned to push past it.

It may be cold. It may be  _ freezing. _ His blood could be ice and his limbs could be frozen solid -- but he is fire. He is an explosion wrapped in human flesh. Heat expands outward, pushing out from his skin with every exhale. He glares down at the ghost writhing on the ground, dragging itself angrily towards them and howling and he refuses to be scared. A ghost is an immobilizing, frigid terror. 

But ice melts under a flame, and he is an inferno.

Even as the fire begins to burst forth from his body, and Ben’s voice carries the last of Psalms 10, the ghost is not giving up without a fight. The rest of its bony, spindly body emerges from under the TV and it manages to wrap a chalky hand around his ankle. The movement is so startling that it knocks him out of focus, and for a moment his bursting energy recedes.

“Oh no you don’t!” Kaine appears from the side, all impulsivity and reckless intent. Without much thought, he attacks the ghost in whichever way he can. Rearing a leg back, he puts all his weight into a kick and smashes his foot across the ghost’s face.

The ghost, which should be intangible, which Peter knows from experience cannot be touched despite being able to touch you, is kicked dead across the face and knocked back.

That in itself is more startling than the hand around his ankle had been, but Peter uses the opportunity to thrust his hands out towards the ghost and direct the bubbling firestorm directly at it. With holy words ringing in his ears, Peter’s world becomes impossibly bright, burning into the backs of his eyelids. 

The air seems to tremble and a screech that borders on inhuman echoes from every corner of the room. When he’s finally able to open his eyes again, the room is dim again, the TV playing softly and no ghost to be seen. When he breathes in the air feels lighter, and the temperature has returned to normal. 

“Holy shit.” Kaine murmurs, shellshocked and winded. 

Ben puts his hands to his head, “ _ Dude,  _ you just punted a ghost!”

“You--you’re right.” Kaine stands up a little straighter. “I totally just kicked it in the face! Ha! Payback!”

Peter can’t help but laugh, shaking his head. He feels a little hysterical, adrenaline still racing through his body. That’s a whole new can of worms. He has a few theories, but right now he’s far too exhausted to go over any of them. “You totally did.”

“What about the bunny?” Ben asks, staring down at the limp plush. There’s nothing particularly menacing about it now. It feels innocuous and inanimate, like a bunch of fabric and cotton fluff is supposed to.

Hesitating for only a moment, Peter picks up Teresa’s beloved stuffed animal. They hold their breath -- but nothing happens. Letting out a quiet sigh of relief, Peter examines the plush carefully. As far as he can tell, there’s no lingering color of a soul clinging to it. 

“Should be fine.” he whispers. “Let's return it to her room, but keep it quiet. I don’t think anyone else heard and I want it to stay that way.”

“Ok, but how?” Kaine drops his voice too, following Peter when he begins to move back towards the stairs and Teresa’s room. “That was  _ impossibly _ loud. And bright. We basically just fist fought a ghost. It shook the whole house. If Uncle Ben didn’t hear any of that, then he’s deaf. Teresa too!”

Ben purses his lips, “Yeah, uh, kinda wondering about that too. That whole thing wasn’t exactly the picture of subtly.”

“I don’t have all the answers,” Peter replies wryly, “Trust me, I’d love to know why myself. As far as I can tell, ghosts exist on a separate plane of existence but every time they interact with  _ our  _ reality it creates a sort of  _ pocket  _ dimension. Or it could be that they’re able to manipulate a certain amount of matter within our reality within a  _ bubble, _ meaning anyone outside their range doesn’t hear anything unless it’s on purpose.”

“Don’t have all the answers my ass,” Kaine mutters, rolling his eyes.

“It’s just a theory, and I’m tired so I’m not even sure if what I’m saying makes sense.” Peter flushes. “Let’s just get this over with and go to sleep.”

“Dimension talk tomorrow.” Ben agrees. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Teresa is still asleep and blissfully unaware that her ugly bunny plush is now ghost-free when they sneak back into her room. Peter tucks Charleston right beside her splayed out arm and tries to pull the covers up a little. It’s a worthless effort, as she’s still hopelessly entangled in them. 

Then they trudge back up to their half-exhausted and half-wired with remnants of fear and settling adrenaline. Kaine doesn’t look like he’ll be sleeping for a week. Neither of his brothers have the same bone-deep ache as Peter, who also feels like he’s gone through an intensive workout after using his  _ Soul Fire _ . 

( The name is gonna stick. )

When they’re settled in bed, he’s out like a light within minutes and doesn’t wake until morning.

The house is quiet again.

* * *

“So what did it feel like?” 

Kaine glances at Peter from his position on the bed, Game Boy in hand and tongue poking from between his teeth. “Huh?”

Peter, notepad and pencil in hand, repeats his question with a hint of impatience. “Kicking our ghost buddy in the kisser. What did it feel like?”

“Awesome.” Kaine replies instantly.

Peter levels his little brother with a look of unbridled exasperation. “I’m not saying it wasn’t, but that’s not really the answer I’m looking for.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

“The emotion you felt when it happened, if you felt anything different --physically or mentally.” Peter taps his pencil against his notepad. “Ya know, like that.”

Kaine sighs, “Why’s it even matter?”

“Because,” Peter stresses, “Ghosts are intangible.”

“Well, yeah.” Kaine drawls, “But they can touch you. I assume it must be able to solidify or whatever when it’s touching something.”

While that’s not a bad theory, Peter isn’t so sure that’s how it works. People aren’t able to physically fight back against ghosts, they have to use items, symbols, holy water, or words. Stuff that lets you affect their reality. Human beings just weren’t able to exist or interact with the plane of existence ghosts wandered around on. (Not without abilities. But even then, Peter has never been able to touch a ghost.)

“I’m almost certain that’s not the case.” he says, “In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s your Gift.” 

“My what?”

Peter looks his brother dead in the eye. “Your Gift. Capital G.”

Kaine looks more confused by the second. “Peter, you said I didn’t have a Sixth Sense. I have a regular soul… or a Marked one. Whatever.”

“Yeah, but, you see, if people with Chromatic souls are born with a Sixth Sense that presents itself as an extra ability -- Like, full on mind reading or prophetic dreams or being able to see souls -- What if, and stay with me here, people who are Marked have smaller  _ Gifts _ that are physical skills. Heightened hearing, super-strength -- specifically body related. Including the ability to  _ touch Ghosts _ . You physically tear through the veil between realities.”

Kaine’s Game Boy slides from his hands, forgotten. “It kinda sounds like you have it all figured out.”

“That’s just it, this is all hypothetical. For one, there’s no real reason for a distinction between a Chromatic and Marked soul, unless something happens to  _ make _ a person Marked, resulting in a Gift.” Peter sighs deeply. “I have so many questions and no answers, and no way to really get these answers because there isn’t any scientific equipment out there that can collect information about the outputs of souls--”

“Ok, ok, ok,” Kaine interrupts. “I get it. Listen, I’ll tell you what I felt the other night. It didn’t feel super special, but now that I think about it, there was something different. I was so hopped up on adrenaline after that I didn’t even think about it, but I was… so driven to help out and protect you guys, I barely even thought. It felt like...heat. In my foot. Well, at first it was all throughout my body, but it focused on my foot when I went in for a kick.”

Peter jots down notes as Kaine speaks, face set in intense concentration.

“Does that help?” Kaine asks dryly, picking his Game Boy back up. 

“Yeah.” Peter grunts. “Wish it all made sense, though.”

His little brother shrugs, “You’ll figure it out eventually, you always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far :)


	8. growing pains

" _It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop._ "

\- Confucius

* * *

_ AUGUST 2000 _

About a week after Peter and Ben turn 13, Peter finds himself in a particularly peculiar situation. By all rights, he should be at home, tucked in bed and sound asleep. It’s nearing midnight and no one knows he’s out of the house. It’s not the first time he’s snuck out in the past two years, but it’s the first time he’s done so this late, and this far away from home. 

It couldn’t be helped. While shopping with Aunt May today he’d seen a broken stereo in the garbage by an establishment that saw most of its patrons at night. They couldn’t afford the parts and pieces of machinery Peter wanted to mess around with, so he’d seen it as an opportunity to improve his education. Sneaking out of the house and all the way to one of the main city roads is just the price he has to pay. 

It wasn’t impossibly hard. Souls were difficult to hide and Peter could generally find ways to avoid anyone he saw coming. Recently, he hit a growth spurt. Not a huge one, as it only gave him three inches and topped him off at a solid 5’4”, but at least it was something. Kaine, who was looking more like a triplet than a little brother by the day, had already surpassed Peter and Ben in height by a whole inch.

An inch he very gleefully lorded over their heads.

Literally.

So here he is, 13 and breaking curfew, rifling through the foul smelling refuse of the day to search for the broken stereo. It reeks of rot and week old coffee and what is most certainly vomit — he can barely stand to breathe for long periods of time. Each inhale is like a punch, visceral and unforgiving. He’s forced to take breaks every few minutes and pull his head up above the garbage. There is most certainly a stain on his sweatshirt now, if the cold, seeping feel of liquid down his arm is any indication. Gross.

While he’s shoving a bag of half-eaten food to the side — and wow, wasteful much? — he hears a noise. At first he doesn’t register the squeak over the sound of his not-so-silent search, but the pulsing music that follows definitely catches his attention. 

The dumpster is pressed against a wall in an alley between a nightclub and a corner store. The only door is a rusty metal one marked  _ emergency exit _ in blocky red letters, which are peeling like rust from an old fence. A dull light hangs above it, casting an orange glow. Peter hadn’t known the door could even open.

But it does, noisily. Then it slams shut, taking the music with it. Peter freezes in his dumpster, hands held in tight fists. The first instinct is to grab at his own mouth to silence heavy breathing, but Peter is wearing little plastic gloves covered in actual trash and accompanying liquids. You couldn’t pay him to put that anywhere near his face. 

“Ah!” He gasps gleefully. There it is! He shoves a brown banana peel to the side and picks up the stereo. It doesn’t look too badly damaged — or at least, it’s not wet with mysterious liquids. 

Footsteps, uneven ones, echo in the alley. He hears unintelligible mutters and then a wet splash of something liquid against cement, followed by gagging.

_ Great, _ he thinks,  _ some druggie is vomiting up his poor decisions. _

Assured that whoever it is is most certain drunk or high off their rocker, he carefully puts the stereo under his arm and peers over the rim of the dumpster. What he sees is the very last thing he ever expected to, yet cannot find himself surprised at its occurrence.

Tony Stark has one hand against the brick wall, the other on his bent knees. He’s dressed in loose pants and a button-up shirt with a, frankly,  _ hideous _ pattern on it, and is gracing the rodent-infested cracked asphalt with half-digested food and copious alcoholic beverages. Peter, already surrounded with the pleasant scent of rot, wrinkles his nose. As far as smelling experiences go, vomit is always the worst.

Tony grips his head and groans loudly, stumbling to right himself. “Ughhh, oh, God.”

Peter admires Tony Stark, to some extent. The man is a genius, bad habits aside. He’s fathered some of the most amazing leaps in scientific history, including an actual, functioning AI just the past year. At 24. It’s incredibly impressive, if not admiration-worthy. Too bad the guy is an absolute mess. Sighing, Peter puts the broken stereo on the closed half of the dumpster, then heaves himself out. With a grunt he hits the ground, not trying in the slightest to conceal his presence.

_ They do say to never meet your heroes, _ he thinks. 

“Whozzat?” Mutters the drunk billionaire, blearily glancing into the gloom. 

Peter strips his gloves off, tossing them back in the dumpster. Tony Stark’s soul is a neutral gray, but not a solid shade. There’s swirls of dark and light woven throughout, like a Van Gogh painting — as if whoever Tony Stark is, he hasn’t figured it out for himself just yet.

“A figment of your drunken imagination.” Peter says, pulling the stereo back into his arms. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

Tony squints, “Why would I be imagining a ten year old boy?”

“Uh….” Peter glances to the opening of the alley way. “I don’t know, why are you? Childhood trauma? Paternal desire?”

The man snorts and shakes his head, before clutching at it in pain. “Ow. Not funny. If you’re a figment of my imagination, you’re an asshole. So— actually, fitting.”

“Yeah. So, here I go. Asshole, away.” Peter starts moving away, wishing he’d brought a watch so he could at least keep track of the time. “Bye.”

“No, wait — I’m not imagining you.” Tony takes a few steps forward, wobbling dangerously. “See, even drunk I’d never imagine some five year old coming out of the trash.”

“Why do your guesses at my age keep getting younger?” Peter quirks his head to the side, slightly offended. “And why do you care? I thought you were busy puking your guts out? You know, like a good little alcoholic?”

Tony returns the mildly offended look. “Wow, ok. Maybe this  _ is _ in my head.”

“Listen, man, I’m not a fan of sticking around talking to drunk men in alleys, not even famous ones.” Peter says dryly. Normally, he’d be eager to pick  _ Tony Stark’s _ brain, but it’s not exactly in tip-top shape. “Bye.”

“Hey—” 

Peter runs, shoes slapping against concrete. He takes care to walk in the shadows, away from the occasional pedestrian. The stereo grows steadily heavier the longer he holds it, edges biting into his fingers. During the summer the nights are decently warm and the streets are lit enough to curb the fear of the dark. It takes him almost a half hour to get home. His arms and legs ache, and his chest hurts. Shifting the stereo to the other arm, he pulls out his inhaler and breathes in a dose. Quiet as can be, he makes his way inside, pulling the spare key from under a rock. He goes in the back, because it’s further from the stairs and therefore will carry less sound to his Aunt and Uncle’s bedroom. 

The house is pitch black. A crow screeches somewhere in the trees. He carefully pushes the door open, wincing at the light creak. Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s door had been shut when he left, so hopefully the noise wasn’t audible. 

Luck must be on his side, because he makes it all the way to his room without getting caught. The house is old, but he’s memorized all the super creaky parts of the stairs and floor. Slipping his bedroom door shut behind him, he lets out a relieved sigh. Then almost screams when he meets his brother’s eyes, Ben standing not three feet away with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Are you an idiot?” His twin hisses, “What do you think you’re doing, sneaking out and traveling so far away?”

“Ben, I was just—” Peter starts, glancing at Kaine's bed. Their younger brother is still sound asleep, with no sign of waking.

“Just what, Peter? Going off without thinking? Expecting everything to turn out okay?” There’s fear in Ben’s gaze, and anger. “Why don’t you ever  _ learn _ ?”

“I can’t keep hiding away, Ben!” Peter growls, voice rising a little too loud. He quiets himself before continuing, “I’m tired of everyone telling me to look over my shoulder. I can’t do anything these days, not make friends, not visit places in my down time — I wasn’t even allowed to go on the field trip last week.”

“Peter—”

“But they let  _ you _ go.” Peter’s teeth grit, his free hand tightening into a fist. “Two years of being treated like glass. You said I had to wait, well I did. I waited. Months and months. Nothing has  _ changed,  _ Ben. I’m tired of it.”

He stalks over to their shared desk and places the broken, smelly stereo atop it. Ben is quiet as Peter strips out of his clothes and back into his pajamas. 

“You’re an idiot,” Ben whispers under the light of artificial stars. “You don’t think of the consequences and you don’t even care.”

“It’s called moving on, Ben. Try it sometime.” Peter steps by his brother and pulls himself up the ladder rungs. 

He hears Ben get back in bed, sheets rustling and springs creaking. From the open window comes the sound of summer cicadas and crickets. 

Then a whisper, “Don’t fool yourself, Peter. What you’re doing isn’t moving on. It’s running.”

* * *

_ MARCH, 2016 _

Peter ends up liking Zootopia. He spends the whole time the movie is playing split between stuffing his face and becoming invested in the storyline unfolding before his eyes. By the time it ends he’s more than a little jealous of the content kids are now growing up on.

“Why couldn’t we have movies packed with meaningful life lessons about equality when we were younger?” he complains, slumping back into the couch cushions.

“Because movies back then were made by white men,  _ for _ white men.” Harry comments around a mouthful of chips. “A lot of them still are.”

“If I never see Adam Sandler’s face again it’ll be too soon.” MJ mutters, fiddling with the remote. She switches from the DVD player to live TV. The obnoxious voice of a sport’s announcer blares across the speakers before MJ hits mute, letting soccer play silently on the screen.

Peter snorts, “Fair points. What’s the next movie?” 

“What’s that one that just came out, about the people in a little girl’s head?” MJ asks.

“The  _ what? _ ” 

“Oh,” Harry pipes up, “Do you mean Inside Out?”

MJ snaps her fingers and points at Harry, a smirk dimpling her cheeks. “That’s the one!”

“Nooooo,” Peter whines, making grabby hands for the remote. “I want to watch The Martian!”

MJ rolls her eyes, holding the remote just out of his reach. He struggles limply for a moment, too lazy to actually move from his spot. From beside him, Gwen lets out a little laugh at his expense. She’s been quiet, a lot more than before. He knows that she’s a ghost, but lately she’s really starting to  _ feel  _ like one.

“Settle down,” Harry stands up in a smooth motion and plucks the remote from MJ’s unsuspecting hands. “We’ll watch The Martian since we just finished an animated movie. Inside Out can be next.”

Peter and MJ share a glance before shrugging. 

“Yeah, sure thing, Dad.” She says, pulling a bag of veggie sticks onto her lap before settling back down. 

They all make it through The Martian, but before Inside Out is half-way through Harry has nodded off, snoring quietly. MJ doesn’t last much longer, eyes shut by the time the credits roll around. Peter observes the two of them fondly before clearing the snacks around them and putting thick blankets across their bodies. He shuts off the TV and lowers the lighting in the room to 25%. It isn’t unusual for him to be the last one awake, he’s struggled with sleeping for a while now. Falling and staying asleep seems almost impossible these days. Only when he’s exhausted himself entirely is he ever able to sleep soundly through the night. 

“Are you sleeping?” Gwen whispers, though her volume control is unnecessary. She peers over the couches at their friends with a sort of wistful fondness. It hurts to see. His heart squeezes uncomfortably, like his face does when he has a mouthful of frosting.

“Maybe.” It’s a toss-up whether or not he’ll actually manage to, but he  _ is  _ feeling tired. Likely because he’d stayed up until 3 am last night and is currently running on pizza and sprite. He picks up the spare blanket - a light blue one with puppies on it, courtesy of Normie - and drapes it over his shoulders like a cape. There’s far too many dog-themed items all around the room and in the Osborn home -- all at Flash’s expense, of course. The man still has that dog mug Peter gave him years ago. 

_ How sentimental _ . Peter grins at the thought, drawing a questioning gaze from Gwen. He shakes his head and shrugs. There’s enough space to squeeze beside Harry if he wants, MJ having taken up the whole couch in her sleep. They’ve all gotten close and personal before, so cuddling with Harry wouldn’t be any big deal. He considers it for a moment, eyeing the couch. 

In the end he takes one of the decorative pillows MJ had knocked off her claimed couch and decides to sleep by the reinforced wall holding in Flash. The door is sealed, unable to be opened unless a digital password is entered. There’s no risk being this close, laying on the ground with his back to the room and nose brushing the wall. He can’t see through it to Flash’s starry-night soul, but when he closes his eyes he imagines he can. The floor is uncomfortable and the pillow is rough under his cheek, but he doesn’t move from his spot, pressing his palms against the wall and wondering if the vibrations he feels are from a raging werewolf or his own heartbeat.

* * *

_ FALL 2000 _

Peter has known of Flash Thompson for a while. They don’t talk or hang out, despite living in the same neighborhood for their entire lives. Even when Peter’s parents had been alive, they’d only been a few streets away. When Aunt May and Uncle Ben had taken them in, there hadn’t been need for changing schools or anything complicated, as they hadn’t moved districts. In some ways it was good, not having to stray far from their roots. In other ways it wasn’t so great, especially for the first few years after the Incident. Everything was done to avoid passing their old house, Aunt May even drove the long way around to take them to school so they wouldn’t have to see it. Now, it wasn’t so painful. Peter doesn’t even remember much about that night, just the feeling of intense fear and the fact that it had been the result of a demon. It was the only thing he could say for certain had actually happened, as time had blurred the line between nightmare and reality. 

Time blurs a lot more than just that. The sound of his parents voices has long since faded, and if it weren’t for the photos hung around his Aunt and Uncle’s home, he would barely know what they looked like. Teresa wasn’t old enough to concern herself with it. She had two loving parental figures in her life and no memories of the first pair. One day, she might want to know more about Richard and Mary Parker and what happened to them that night, but Peter’s sure it won’t be for quite a long time.

Hopefully not too long, because then he won’t have the answers she’s looking for anymore.

Through it all, Flash Thompson and his little sister had been one of the constants. Peter didn’t like Flash, if only because the other boy concerns himself too much with sports and being the top-dog on the playground. Sometimes he feels bad, because Flash’s dad will do weird things like yell in his underwear or show up to the park with flushed cheeks and the appearance of man who hasn’t showered in a week. Peter doesn’t know what he’d do if his Uncle was like that. 

Still, they never talked or played together. At school they barely shared any classes and even when they did, they never interacted because Peter had better things to do than make friends. He sat in the back of the room with his book in hand, pencils lined up in a row and his glasses perched carefully on his nose. Flash, in contrast, was what people liked to call a ‘big personality’. The amount of energy he had made Peter exhausted even thinking about it, and the boy was constantly surrounded by people or pushing his way into friend groups. While Peter shut himself away, Flash seemed desperate for attention and inclusion. 

To each his own. Peter didn’t particularly care to concern himself with it. It was his last year of middle school and he’d yet to make an actual friend, only surrounding himself with books or passing acquaintances. Ben’s friends were pretty cool, but they didn’t go out of their way to include him. Ben said it was because he came off as aloof and unresponsive, which was partially true --but in reality Peter just wanted to be left alone. 

Most of the kids would end up in the same High School, Flash Thompson included. Midtown High was the closest to their neighborhood, not that there were a lot of High Schools to choose from in Forest Hills. The point of this thought process was centered solely around the fact that, on a crisp November day in the middle of the school week, Flash Thompson knocks Peter’s books out of his arms. While annoying, it’s not something Peter sees as unforgivable. 

No, what solidifies his intense dislike for the other boy is when Flash, after being goaded by a bunch of other boys, knocks Peter to the ground. His hands and knees end up skinned, burning and bleeding. He tells Aunt May he tripped during recess and she picks the gravel out of his palms with fond exasperation.

Her expression would surely differ had he told her the real reason. Peter doesn’t know what to think of the event. They don’t really know each other, so it’s probably just a one-time thing.

Except it’s not.

It’s always small things, a few shoves here and there or his books being knocked to the floor. The teasing is far worse and usually ends in one of them red-faced and huffing. A few years ago he might have withered under the verbal assault - and perhaps he still does, though not visibly - but now he fires back with his own brand of vitriol, silver tongue running circles around the other boys until they fall back on pushing him into a locker, rather than attempt to match his wit.

Ben faces much the same, but not as badly as Peter, if only because Peter is the easier target. No one would dare mess with Kaine, who’s already gotten three detentions since the start of the semester just for fighting. 

(Peter wonders where his brother gets all that anger, but then, in the night, will stare at his faintly glowing plastic stars and realize that his rage sits just below the skin, spreading to every part of his body instead of exploding in an instant. Kaine is an open wound, wrath spills from him the second the emotion comes to exist. Peter is like a balloon, he swells with it until he pops and his anger is sharp, loud, and brief.)

* * *

_ FALL 2001 _

The first year of high school, Peter is fourteen and his skin has betrayed him. Acne sprouts angrily from too-oily skin, staining his forehead and cheeks. It feels gross and painful and no matter how careful he is not to touch his face excessively, or how dedicated to a face washing routine he is, the acne does not completely desist. Unfortunately, such is the life of a teenager. 

High School is a different world. For one, everyone is now a Gray. A majority in his grade are still a shade of gray that’s  _ just _ on the edge of white, but the older kids start to darken into a pretty solid light to neutral gray, which is the standard for your average person. There are, surprisingly, more Chromatics than Ben. One is an Abstract Chromatic, a girl in his grade with a soul of swirling purple, blue and pink. He can’t remember her name, but he’s certain it starts with a J. The other is a Solid Chromatic; another girl, this one in his homeroom and half his classes, actually. Her name is Cindy Moon and her soul is solid crimson. It’s incredibly eye-catching and brings back faint flickers of memories he just can’t seem to grasp. From the notes he’s taken over the years, he knows he’s seen someone with red on their soul before, but they were Marked. In his eyes, Cindy sticks out like a sore thumb, even though she’s a girl who’s never the center of attention.

Despite his intrigue, he doesn’t go out of his way to start a conversation with her. Talk of ghosts and the supernatural is pretty heavily frowned upon in mainstream society, and he’s not looking to draw a target on his back when Flash already does that for him.

Another aspect of High School is Ben finally,  _ finally _ losing the last of his Purity Sight. He’s made a valiant effort, holding onto it far longer than anyone else (by Gray standards). He was still far more sensitive to the supernatural than the average person, shivering when a ghost was near or sensing their presence but being unable to look upon them. Ben’s dreams continued, but they became increasingly obscure. He keeps a dream journal now, and Kaine only called it a diary once. 

Speaking of Kaine, his ability to see ghosts is entirely gone and has been for the past year. Despite this, he continues to be completely accepting of the fact that ghosts do, in fact, exist, and aren’t some figment of his imagination. Having brothers like Peter and Ben probably helps.  _ Probably _ . 

The fact that there is a difference in sensory ability between Ben and Kaine, one being a Gradient Chromatic and the other Marked,  _ has  _ to mean something. The Mark on Kaine’s soul  _ has _ to mean something more. Though Kaine wasn’t born with a  _ Sixth Sense _ , He still has his Gift. Peter just thinks it’s odd that Kaine’s Gift allows him to touch spirits, but not see them. Isn’t that redundant? How would he ever use an ability like that? Furthermore, he still hasn’t figured out what it truly means to be Marked and if his theory of it being the result of an outside event has any weight to it. Then again, what could have possibly happened to Kaine when he was just a baby? Peter couldn’t recall a single memory in which Kaine didn’t have that coffee stain of a Mark across his soul.

He just can’t figure it out.

The more information he gathers about this whole soul business, the less it seems to make cohesive sense. There’s a bit of a thrill to it too, the observing and data collecting. Peter feels like a scientist -- one who stumbled upon a giant breakthrough. (He wonders if his parents ever felt like this.)

He still doesn’t really have friends, despite the fact that people are pretty nice. Well, most of them. Flash and his goonies aren’t nice in any sense of the word. Being the target of frequent bullying really puts a damper on potential friendship offers. Not that he cares -- he’s fine with his books and his ghosts.

“Hi.” 

Peter glances up from his lunch, PB&J half-way to his mouth. “Uh,” he says intelligently.

It’s a girl he’s never seen before, with dark hair cut relatively short, pretty eyes, and a pale gray soul. Her clothes are neat yet distinctly gothic; a dark plaid skirt, black tights, black turtleneck. There’s rings of black make-up around her eyes and her fingernails are painted neon green. She also looks about his age, but it’s hard to tell. Everyone’s at that awkward half-grown stage.

“Betty Brant. 14. Freshman. I’m in your AP Biology class, three seats behind you and to the left.” She introduces, sliding into the seat beside his. “I couldn’t help but notice you around school. Or more particularly, what you’ve been reading.”

She glances very pointedly down at the book beside Peter’s lunch tray.  _ Explaining the Occult. _

“Ah,” he says, once again the peak example of intelligence. “Uh, okay?”

“See, I’m interested in that stuff too,” she continues, steamrolling over his lackluster replies. Her eyes flash with something that looks like excitement -- or intent. “But it’s so hard to find others, which is why I was so surprised to see  _ you  _ of all people.”

“Me of all people?” He’s trying not to take that as an insult.

“I’m thinking of starting a club.” she announces, “A paranormal investigations club.”

“...okay.” He’s still a little thrown at being approached so candidly. “And let me guess…”

Betty nods, “I want you to be my first member. My  _ first mate _ , if you will.”

“Pirate references,” Peter mutters, “Cool.”

Betty pulls a flyer from her bag. It’s green, with not a wrinkle on it. In big block letters it says  _ Paranormal Investigations Club,  _ with cutesy drawings of ghosts around it. There’s even an alien in a little saucer, and what looks like a poorly drawn vampire.

Peter finds himself taking it, more than a little bewildered.

“Of course, the goal is to get at least five members, so we can be considered a fully established club and get assigned an after-school room. With you, there’s only three more students needed. I have my eye on some, but with you the recruitment should go twice as fast.” She’s very businesslike, and undeniably eager. It’s quite cute, and Peter is a socially awkward boy who’s never spoken this much to a girl since elementary school. (Not that he’d cared much about girls back then.) So he flickers his gaze from her clearly homemade flyer, to her and back, wondering if he’s simply forgotten the entire english language.

“Okay,” he settles on. “You know, my brother will probably join.”

Betty claps her hands together. “Wonderful! That’s three out of five!”

Peter, who’s still processing the fact that he’s been invited into a club without much warning or choice, offers her a smile that feels two-thirds  _ what the hell just happened _ and one-third  _ brain.exe has stopped working. _

She pulls something else from her bag, a clipboard this time. “Just put your name here, and signature -- it needs to be official.”

Peter takes the pen she offers and signs his name on the blank sheet. “You’re not just one of those girls that’s obsessed with Harry Potter, right?”

Betty gasps, “Don’t insult Harry Potter!” 

“Uh, I’m not--”

“But no,” she interrupts, “It’s not that. While I do love the series, my passion existed long before I picked up J.K’s magical world… It started when I was seven, and I saw a ghost.”

She looks at him with an expression that looks both serious and wondering, wide eyes piercing his soul as if daring him to laugh. Peter, who’s been the subject of laughter far too often, keeps his mouth shut and puts on his best  _ I’m listening _ face. Which probably isn’t that great, to be honest. He’s not a very good listener.

“So there I was... seven years old and so very innocent.” she begins, adopting a faraway look. “We had to visit my Great-Aunt Kathleen’s house for the holidays -- which we don’t do anymore, because she called Aunty Sharon a money-grubbing hooker to her face, and we all like Aunty Sharon more since Great-Aunt Kathleen used to tell all the kids they’d get personally bedded by the devil and then burned alive if they ever misbehaved. But I’m getting off topic -- anyway, Great-Uncle Martin, Great-Aunt Kathleen’s husband, had died a few years ago. I don’t really remember much of him, but everyone says he was a lot more tolerable than his wife.”

Peter blinks in astonishment, surreptitiously glancing around the cafeteria to see if anyone else was witnessing this. Beyond his control, he actually finds himself smiling. It’s a new feeling, enjoying someone else’s company. (And not being related to them.)

Betty continues on with her story, getting so invested in the retelling that she starts talking with her hands. “So they had a pretty nice finished basement. There wasn’t much down there because it used to be Great-Uncle Martin’s  _ mancave _ or whatever, apparently he used to to get away from his wife. Can’t blame him. Anyway, I was hiding down there one time, because my devil incarnate Great-Aunt had just told me that Satan liked the way little girls tasted -- all because I took a cookie before dinner, by the way, which is so uncalled for -- so naturally I wanted to get as far away from her. Imagine those nasty old women who played eenie-meenie-miney-mo to pick which girl they were gonna tell the church was a witch next,  _ that’s _ what she was like.” She shivers for emphasis. “And there’s a man down there. He’s watching the TV and wasn’t bothering anyone, so I chilled down there with him for a bit. Didn’t talk much, but he was better company than the rest of my relatives. Turns out it was Great-Uncle Martin. And I’m pretty sure that was the last time we ever went there for the holidays.”

“Wow,” Peter says when she concludes her story. “That sounds… interesting.”

Betty shrugs. “It was my first paranormal experience. I’ve had a few more since, I make sure to keep them all documented.”

Peter can almost imagine a studious Betty Brant, seven years old and already keeping a journal of notes with different colors for organization. “Huh. How many have you had then?”

“A total of six.” She admits, shoulders straight like it’s something to be proud of. Peter wonders what she would think if she knew his entire life was one long ghost experience. Not a single day goes by where he doesn’t see at least one ghost, even if it’s literally just glancing out his window and catching a glimpse of one floating by on the sidewalk. Still, six seems like a pretty significant amount if all the incidents are unrelated. It would be another story entirely if it was all the same ghost. 

“But forget that,” she leans in close, making Peter lean back reflexively. “What about you?”

Peter offers a concerned grin. “Uh, what  _ about  _ me?” 

“Paranormal experiences! Have you had any -- and if you have, how many? What was it like? Were you able to establish contact?”

“You could say… I’ve had… a few.” The desire to talk to a pretty girl wars with his discomfort. None of his experiences have been great. Completely terrible, really. “Wasn’t too interesting, really.”

“Hm,” Betty hums and leans back, expression doubtful. “That remains to be seen.”

Peter grins wryly,  _ If only she knew. _

* * *

“I can’t believe you made me join a ghost hunting club.” Ben complains, slouching in his seat. 

Peter shrugs. “It  _ could  _ be helpful.”

“Yeah, right,” Ben snorts in response.

So far, they’re the only ones to show up to the very first  _ Paranormal Investigations Club _ meeting. Granted, it doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes, but Peter is doubtful anyone else will join. It’s in one of the science classrooms, empty now that school is out. Peter’s just glad he’s allowed to deviate from his usual schedule. It seems like finally _ , finally,  _ his Aunt and Uncle are giving him some breathing room. And boy, does freedom taste sweet.

“We’re literally here because you couldn’t say no to a pretty girl giving you the time of day.” His twin snipes unhelpfully.

“Will you shut up,” Peter flushes, “It’s not like that.”

Ben doesn’t have a chance to respond, as it’s in the next moment that the classroom door is flung open, revealing Betty Brant. She’s carrying a big cardboard box -- a heavy one, if the strain on her face says anything. Peter and Ben both leap to help. (Their Aunt would kill them otherwise -- she didn’t even have to be present to  _ know _ when they didn’t act like the gentlemen she’d raised them to be.)

“Oh, thanks!” Betty smiles brightly, bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands together once the boys have shouldered the weight. Peter and Ben place it on the nearest desk. It was definitely heavier than it looked, Peter’s impressed she managed to carry it so far on her own.

“What is all this?” He asks, poking curiously at the closed flaps.

Betty opens up the box with flourish. “All my Investigation Equipment!”

Inside is a slew of equipment Peter has only ever seen in books or film. Most of it, anyway. There’s a really nice camera in there as well, which Peter is immediately drawn to.

“Whoa! This is a Nikon N90!” He exclaimed, almost scared to even put his hands on it. Betty takes it from the box and dumps it in his hands without much thought. Peter makes a squeaking noise, adjusting his hands to cradle the camera with reverence. He doesn’t think he’s ever held anything this expensive in his entire life.

“You know cameras? Good. You can be our camera guy.” Betty nods, decision already made without his input. “I’m not  _ amazing _ with it, so hopefully you’ve got some talent.”

“Peter’s a tech connoisseur,” Ben grins cheekily, nudging Peter in the gut. “And a good eye. He’ll be great.”

Peter doesn’t even have the strength to retaliate, too captivated by the beautiful object in his current possession. While he loves taking apart tech and figuring out how it works, he wouldn’t dare lay a hand on something like a Nikon N90. It’s almost giving him  _ hives _ holding that much money. 

“Betty, are you rich?” he asks, without thought.

She laughs a little, “I mean, not exactly, but my family isn’t bad off.”

While she’s able to wave it away, the obvious difference in their money status makes him feel a little self conscious. He shares a glance with Ben, whose lips are pursed. Luckily, Betty doesn’t pick up on their discomfort and mild embarrassment, continuing in her quest to empty out the box of all its contents. 

One after the other, a new piece of equipment joins the growing pile on the table. Peter counts five walkie-talkies, two hand-held thermometers, an EMF reader, a video camera, a ouija board, and several books on both the paranormal and the supernatural.

“Vampires?” Ben questions, picking up one of the books with an eerie black cover and typography just a little too halloween-y to be serious. “...really?”

Betty turns her nose up. “Don’t knock it! Can you tell me with complete sincerity that there  _ isn’t _ the possibility of any supernatural creature existing? With all the folklore and horror stories out there?” 

Peter and Ben glance at each, then shrug in unison. “I suppose not.” They both say. Neither are eager to argue with her, nor can they provide enough evidence to start one.

“So. What do you think?” She asks, when all the materials are out on the table before them. 

“It’s a lot.” Ben says, for lack of anything else.

“Your parents really let you get all this?” Peter asks, once again without much thought.

Betty shrugs, “Well, yeah. They said it’s a better hobby than doing drugs.” Then she puts her hands on her hips. “So, where do you want to start?”

As it turns out, no one comes that first day. Peter has the feeling that even if the club isn’t recognized by the school, Betty is already invested. He’s also pretty sure that both he and Ben are now stuck with her, club be damned. It’s actually kind of nice, having a friend who has the same interest in the paranormal and doesn’t look at you like you’re crazy. When Peter and Ben get home that night, they both feel a little bit lighter.

“She  _ is _ pretty, though.” Ben comments, one brow expertly raised.

“Oh, shut up, Ben.”

* * *

(On September 11, while Peter was in school, the Twin Towers fell not 30 minutes away. Schools are closed, panic sets in, and the country is never the same.)

* * *

_ JANUARY, 2002 _

Betty smacks her hands down on the table. “Terry Norman.”

Peter and Ben look up from their lunches, finding themselves growing familiar with her abrupt manner of appearing. 

“Who?” Peter asks, nose scrunching up. Ben’s face is identical. (Haha, twins.)

“Who?  _ Who? _ Only one of the most famous dead guys around, Ben!” She exclaims.

“Peter.” He corrects.

“Peter,” she amends. “He died some thirty years ago, and his house fell to his family. But they don’t live there, because apparently they were  _ chased _ out of the home by, get this --  _ Terry himself! _ ”

“Sounds cool and all,” Ben comments absently, “But this is relevant because…?”

Betty rolls her eyes, “Ugh, it’s like you guys don’t even care about ghosts. It’s  _ relevant _ because we’re going there. To Terry Norman’s house.”

“You have permission to Investigate?” Peter sits up straighter in his seat, a little surprised at her dedication. 

“Well...not exactly.” she trails off, sheepish.

Ok, never mind. Peter gives her a  _ Look _ . “You realize, then, that you’re asking us to commit a crime.”

“Yeah, breaking and entering is definitely a crime, Bets.” Ben chimes in, swirling his pasta lunch around with his fork. “I’m seriously too pretty to go to jail.”

“Oh, come on! This is our chance to get real evidence!” She moves around the table and pushes her way between them, taking a seat in the space she forcefully made. “Live a little! No one ever goes near there anyway, it’s not like we’ll get caught.”

“I dunno, Betty… what are we supposed to tell our Aunt and Uncle? They’re pretty strict about us going out after… the towers.” Peter shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t want to come off as a coward in front of the one person giving him the time of day outside his family, but he’s not looking forward to going to a place that’s assumed to be haunted. The last thing he wants is to come face to face with another one of those weird gollum spirits.

“I think she’s saying she wants us to sneak out.” Ben faux-whispers, nudging Betty’s elbow with his own. “Which shouldn’t be a problem for you, Pete.”

Peter scowls at his brother, detecting the barest hint of reprimand in Ben’s tone. He barely manages to bite his tongue before spilling something rude in return. 

Betty, however, seems incredibly interested by this new information. “Really? You’ve snuck out before? Wow, didn’t know you had it in you. This shouldn’t be a problem for you then.”

“Why, exactly, do we need to sneak out?” Peter asks grudgingly.

“For one, we’re less likely to be caught when it’s dark and everyone is sleeping.” She begins.

“Um, excuse me, teacher?” Ben props up his arm on the table, waving his hand obnoxiously. “I thought you said there was  _ no _ chance of us being caught?”

“Technicalities,” she shrugs, “We must always be prepared for the risk. The other reason it needs to be at night is because that’s when ghosts are most active.  _ Witching Hour _ and all that.”

Peter folds his hands. “So let me get this straight. You want us to go out, to a place that’s potentially haunted, during a time when those potential ghosts are at their strongest?”

“Basically.”

The twins glance past Betty and meet each other's eyes, speaking without words. They hold it for a moment, before Ben cracks a grin and Peter sighs.

“Alright,” he says, defeated. “I guess we’re in. But only if we can bring our little brother.”

“Your little brother?” Betty questions. “Uh…”

“He’s barely a year younger, so not exactly ‘little’,” Ben assures her, “It’s just that there’s no way we can sneak out of the house without him kicking up a storm. He’ll definitely want to come when he finds out what we’re doing.”

“Does he believe in the Paranormal?” 

Peter shrugs, “You could definitely say that.”

* * *

“You’re actually crazy.”

Rolling over on his back, Kaine sits up on his bed while eyeing the twins with disbelief. It’s a bit past their ‘bedtime’, the moon half-full and high in the sky. Uncle Ben and Aunt May are both home tonight, presumably snoozing away already. 

Peter rolls his eyes at his younger brother’s dramatics. “I’m not exactly happy about this either.”

“I think it could be fun!” Ben argues softly, “And you can’t tell me you aren’t excited to use some of that equipment.”

“Don’t tempt me with technology, you fiend.”

Kaine snorts at their bantering. “So you guys are really doing this then, huh? With that crazy girl?”

“She’s not crazy.” Peter defends, “Just a bit…”

“Odd? Excitable?” Ben fills in.

Peter peers over the edge of his bed, visibly conveying his lack of amusement. “Not helping.”

“But really, Kaine,” Ben continues as if Peter hasn’t spoken. “She’s alright. ‘Sides, who knows? This could be just what we need. How else are we going to collect information about ghosts if we don’t interact with them?”

Peter digests his twin’s words, hating that he finds truth in them. As much as he’s improved in the past three years, it’s still hard for him to completely let go of his fear. If he can avoid situations like that all together, he doesn’t see the problem in it. Unfortunately, Ben is right. Peter complains about needing data all the time, when the truth of the matter is that perhaps the only way he can learn anything is through experience. 

“I don’t like it,” he begins slowly, “But you’re right.”

Kaine shifts under his covers, pulling them up higher to his chin. “Well, if you guys are in, then so am I. Don’t worry, if any big bad ghosts appear I’ll clock ‘em in the face like I did the last one.”

“Our hero,” Ben drawls.

“Hey, you won’t be laughing when I end up saving your ass.” 

Peter snorts, “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

The boys quiet down after that, until it’s just Peter awake and listening to his brothers’ soft breaths. He traces the three constellations mapped out on his ceiling with glowing, rubbery stars. Leo, Virgo, Taurus. Over and over. Every day he grows from that shell of a child he’d been three years ago. Some part of him will be forever scarred, he knows that. The rat had bitten the lion, teeth digging so deep into flesh that it had torn fur and muscle until Peter was left with a gaping, bleeding hole. 

Now that fresh wound was a scar. Still pink and tender, the new skin fragile and prone to tear. Some days Peter feels like he can’t bear to move, else he rips that healing scab wide open once again.  _ I’m scared _ , he thinks. Of everything and anything. But he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t have to be. Peter holds his arm up, palm towards the ceiling and fingers splayed wide. Between the gaps he sees bits of the Leo constellation. 

One day, he wants to be a Lion once more.


	9. dusty lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one’s a little late! I lost track of the days ;-;

“ _The struggle of life is one of our greatest blessings. It makes us patient, sensitive, and Godlike. It teaches us that although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of overcoming it.”_

— Helen Keller

* * *

Peter doesn’t enjoy lying to his Aunt and Uncle. That being said, he has a tendency to act before thinking of the consequences. The biggest concern he has about sneaking out is not how worried they will be if they find out, but rather what he could possibly end up experiencing in a haunted house. From past knowledge, haunted houses aren’t fun. They’re terrifying and stressful and make you impossibly paranoid to the point of madness. Not that it’s an uncommon desire, but Peter likes to feel safe. He likes having a place of safety to return to, where he doesn’t have to worry about ghosts or souls or any of the nonsense in his life.

When that had been taken away, it wasn’t great. For anyone. A haunted bunny had almost killed them. (Probably. Peter still isn’t sure what exactly ghosts  _ want, _ other than to terrify the living.)

“So...she said to meet in front of the house? And how exactly did she expect us to get there?” Kaine mutters, “Walking. Good old fashioned walking. In the middle of fall, when it’s twenty degrees out.”

“S-Shut up,” Peter shivers. “Just keep moving. We’re still a few blocks away.”

“We couldn’t have done this on a warmer night?” His brother mutters under his breath.

They’ve been walking for about a half hour now, and they’re still around ten minutes away. All three of them are bundled up in layers, even wearing long-johns under their jeans. Peter’s nose is already numb and running. He sniffs heavily and picks up the pace, hoping to warm himself up a bit.

A part of him still can’t believe they’re doing this. Another, louder part is hyping him up, eager to grow beyond the person he is now. He wants this to make him  _ better _ . He wants this to fix him.

They walk under the light of a full moon and glaring streetlights, keeping to the shadows as not to alarm any night-owls looking out their window. Every huffing breath condenses into a cloud. The sparse trees are bare, the sidewalk littered with brown, curling leaves. The neighborhood is eerie at night, still and quiet aside from the crunch of those fallen leaves under their shoes. The cold has caused most insects to burrow away or die, and Peter never realized just how silent the night was without those sounds until he was subject to a forty minute walk through it. 

As expected, about ten minutes later they reach the house. It’s fenced in by a chest-height wall of stone, with a gate made of rusted metal twisted into ornamental shapes. The house is completely and utterly dark, not a drop of light coming from within. It’s very obviously abandoned and unkempt, the yard overgrown with weeds and creeping vines. One of the windows at the front is cracked. There’s a baseball in the yard, presumably what caused the crack -- but left there, lost to the house. Peter doesn’t blame whoever it was, just looking at this place is giving him second thoughts about trespassing.

“She wants us to go in  _ there? _ ” Kaine hisses, gripping Peter’s arm. “It looks like a textbook haunted house! That’s the kind of place stupid people go into to  _ die _ . I’m not about to be a horror movie stereotype, Pete.”

“Relax,” Ben soothes, patting their youngest brother on the back. “If it gets too crazy, we’ll leave. Scout’s Honor.”

“I know for a fact you were never a Boy Scout.” Kaine grumbles.

“There you are!” 

The three of them jump, letting out various sounds of startlement. Betty appears on the other side of the fence, her head peeking over. Her cheeks are bright red from the cold and there’s a dark purple knit hat with a pom-pom pulled down around her ears.

“Oops,” she grins, laughing at their fearful expressions. “My bad. It took you awhile to get here, huh? You should have just ridden a bike like I did.”

The three Parkers shift uncomfortably.

Kaine scowls. “Yeah, great. Aside from the fact that we’d actually need bikes to do that.”

Betty looks sheepish. “Oh. Sorry. I just assumed…”

“Well, don’t.” He mutters.

“Alright,” Ben pats Kaine on the shoulder, smiling broadly to diffuse the situation. “That’s enough of that! No harm done. Betty, this is our brother Kaine. Kaine, Betty.”

“Nice to meet you!” Betty greets, moving over to the latch on the gate and opening it up. “Now come on in!”

Peter enters carefully. “Was the gate already unlocked?”

The front walkway is completely trashed with weeds and cracks. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for years. Betty is dressed in a puffy black coat, dark pants and boots, fuzzy green socks poking out the top. The dark color of her coat makes the neon green straps of the backpack she’s wearing all the more obvious.

“Yeah. Not much of a security system.” She muses.

Ben and Kaine follow behind Peter, and the three of them eye their surroundings with equal parts interest and skepticism.

“Probably because most people are smart enough to stay away.” Kaine comments snidely. “This place doesn’t exactly give off welcoming vibes.”

“Neither do you.” Peter points out, earning himself a shove. 

Betty slips the backpack off her shoulders, carefully placing it on the ground before her. “Okay guys, time to split the goods.”

She unzips the backpack and reaches in, searching. Eventually she pulls out flashlights, handing one to each of them. The camera goes to Peter, who treats it just as reverently as the first time he laid eyes upon it. He puts the strap around his neck, not willing to take any chances. It would be a shame to break it -- and there was no way he’d be able to pay her back if he did. Ben gets the handheld thermometer, and Kaine gets the EMF detector. Betty chooses the video camera and recorder for herself.

“What do you plan to do with that?” Ben asks, peering at the bulky recording device. “Interview the ghost?”

“Absolutely,” she confirms, swinging the bag back over her shoulders. “That’s the goal. Now, if we’re all set… let’s head in.”

“Uh, not to rain on this happy little parade, but isn’t the door going to be locked? Even if the gate wasn’t, it’s doubtful the rest of the house is.” Kaine points out, putting the EMF detector in his pocket and keeping hold of the flashlight. None of them have turned their lights on yet, waiting to get in the house so they don’t attract any attention while outside. 

“While I was waiting for you guys to get here, I found a window that’s unlocked,” Betty reveals. “If one of you gives me a leg up, I can open the door.”

“This feels more illegal by the second.” Ben mutters.

Peter sighs, “We already made it here, might as well finish it. Which window was it?”

Betty leads them around the left side of the house. The second window, while still on the first floor, is  _ just _ high enough to make access difficult for them. The sill is chin height, so they can wiggle the window open with their arms raised high. It creaks and groans but slides open without too much resistance. When Peter pulls his hands away, his fingers are coated with dust.

“Ugh,” he grimaces, wiping them on his pants. 

Ben takes Betty’s video camera and recorder, shoving his own equipment in his big winter coat pockets.

“Help me up,” Betty says, putting her hands on the sill. She begins to heave herself up and Peter puts his hands under her feet to give her a boost. She sticks her head in the window and worms her way in, pushing the window open a little more with her shoulders. With a thump and an  _ Oof _ , she’s in. Her face appears in the window after, and she holds a thumb up.

“All good! Someone hand me a flashlight. And Ben, gimme my video camera. I know it’ll take a second to unlock the door, but just in case...” 

Peter passes her his light, and Ben holds up her video camera for her to take. She grabs them both with a grin.

“Ok, meet you around front!” With that, she flicks on the flashlight and leaves.

Kaine shakes his head, “You guys were right when you said she was pretty. Pretty  _ crazy _ .”

Ben laughs, “Yeah, maybe a little. But it’s great, isn’t it?”

They go around front, walking up the steps to wait on the front porch. Not a moment later there’s a few clicks, and the door swings open. 

“Ta da!” Betty exclaims. “Sadly, no ghosts yet.”

The house is freezing, almost colder inside than it is outside. There’s a thick layer of dust over everything, enough that Peter is very,  _ very _ glad he brought his inhaler along.

“Jeez,” Kaine coughs, waving his hand as their feet kick up globs of swirling dust. “They really just left this place to rot.”

It’s oddly silent. 

Peter is used to seeing the dead in most available spaces where the living population is sparse. An abandoned place like this should attract spirits like a magnet, especially at this time of night. Or maybe there really is some truth to the claims that ghosts could only haunt the areas they died in. (It’s a claim that Peter doesn’t believe. While there is logic in ghosts sticking close to places they remember from when they were alive, he doesn’t see how their energy could possibly be locked to one area.)

“Alright, take out your stuff.” Betty orders, taking her recorder back from Ben. She boots her video camera up, flipping the little monitor open. “Let’s get this started.”

Ben turns on the thermometer, wincing at the number it displays. “Thought it was a little cold in here.” He jokes, flashing them the number 19. 

Kaine grumbles a bit but turns on the EMF detector. Immediately, it lights up and starts blaring an odd analog sound. Betty gasps, pressing in close.

“What? What does it mean?” he asks, holding it away from him nervously and, perhaps unintentionally, closer to Peter. The detector only blares louder. 

Peter frowns as everyone looks at him. Betty takes the detector from Kaine and holds it to Peter’s chest. The EMF detector  _ screams _ . She holds it away and the beeping grows quieter.

“Huh,” she says. “That’s weird. Maybe it’s broken… guess that’s done with. We won’t get any accurate readings if it’s already beeping all over the place. Unless… you’re not a ghost, are you Peter?”

“Uh...” he stutters.

Betty laughs. “Kidding! I’ll put this away for now.”

Peter swallows nervously, wondering why it feels like there’s a million butterflies in his gut. Not the good kind, either. He feels the weight of his brother’s eyes on him even as Betty turns away, turning the EMF Detector off and putting it back in her bag.

“Here, Kaine, I’ll let you have the video camera. Just make sure to take this seriously, okay?” She passes it over to him, and he takes it without much complaint despite the continuously grumpy expression on his face.

“...I’ve never used one of these before.” He admits.

She turns it on for him without comment, “Press here to record. Watch the monitor so you know what you’re filming. It’s not too difficult!”

“Where should we start?” Ben asks, shining his flashlight around the entranceway. 

The main hall is open, lined with moldy, crumbling wallpaper. There’s a dusty wooden staircase, the railings intricately carved -- or what’s left of them, half the railings have rotted and fallen. Luckily, the steps don’t look as if they’re falling apart. It should be safe to go up to the second floor, that is, assuming they want to. (And that the wood isn’t actually rotten.)

To the left there’s a big opening in the wall leading to what appears to be a living room. To the right is a door-sized opening revealing another room, and between the left wall and the stairs is a hall leading further into the house. All the furniture is covered with sheets that look to have once been white, but are now yellowed with age and riddled with holes. There are spiderwebs in every corner and hanging from the wall-lights. It’s every bit the spooky, abandoned house one would see in movies.

“Suddenly this seems like a very bad idea,” Ben mutters, his happy-go-lucky attitude dampened by the dark and gloomy appearance. This kind of setting really amps up the paranoia -- and they haven’t even seen a ghost yet.

“No turning back now.” Betty says, firmly closing the front door and sealing them in. It feels a little bit like a death sentence. “Ok, Kaine, turn the camera on and focus it on me.”

He does what she asks, and she straightens up, attempting to look as professional as possible.

“I’m Betty Brant, here with my investigative team in the allegedly haunted home of Terry Norman, who died from unknown causes thirty-two years ago. According to the records, Terry Norman’s wife had passed away the year before, so the home went to his children. Mr. Norman’s daughter, Nancy Norman, lived in the home with her husband and two children for only 4 months. According to them, they couldn’t stand to live one more day in this very house, claiming that they felt their lives were threatened.”

Peter and Ben meet eyes as she talks, both somewhat amused and bewildered. Kaine’s face is screwed up in annoyed disbelief, but he keeps the camera on her steadily, apparently taking his job seriously. 

“We’re here today to find out whether their claims that the house is haunted by malicious paranormal forces are true. The goal is to collect real, actual evidence of an entity, or debunk the case.” She pauses for a moment, then nods, smiling. “Ok, that’s good.”

“Good?” Kaine asks, “Do I turn it off?”

“No, keep it on. We don’t want to miss anything. I’ll edit out what we don’t need later.” She replies, twirling around towards the open living room and kicking up even more dust. Peter presses a hand over his mouth and nose, grimacing. There isn’t much fresh air in here and it’s making him a bit nervous. He’s gone a while without an asthma attack and he’d like to keep it that way.

Betty walks into the living room and they follow her in, flashlights brightening the area but creating an unsettling atmosphere. Peter glances around, wondering if there really  _ is _ anything in here. Any old place can be creepy, it didn’t mean they were all haunted. 

“What’s the temperature in this room?” she asks Ben.

He glances at the thermometer. “19. Still.”

They search around the living room, checking behind what looks to be the couch and a pair of armchairs hidden under musty sheets. 

“Is there anyone here?” Betty calls. “Peter, try taking a few pictures.”

Peter raises the camera, pointing it towards the bulk of the room. The flash illuminates the space for a moment. He looks at the image on the monitor, squinting against the brightness of the screen. It doesn’t look like much. He takes a few more, the room lighting up in split-second intervals. 

Betty wanders to the right, where another room is. There’s a long table covered by another sheet, long enough to conceal whatever is underneath it. Which, hopefully, is nothing. Kaine follows her, turning the camera to capture every inch of the room. He’s surprisingly into the role of cameraman. 

“Ah, it’s colder over here.” Ben announces.

He’s quickly shot down by Kaine. “Because it’s near a window, idiot.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees movement. Turning his head, he glances behind him, back towards the entryway. There isn’t anything there. Still, without thinking too much of it, Peter snaps a picture. He looks down at the monitor. Nothing, as expected. He’s just being paranoid.

Peter shakes his head, smiling to himself. Betty calls once more for the attention of whatever spirits might be haunting this place. While it’s still dark and  _ spooky _ feeling, it doesn’t feel so bad with three other people -- and someone like Betty, who seems fearless in her pursuit of answers.

They wander into the dining room. Ben brushes a finger across the linens covering the table, wrinkling his nose at the amount of dust that comes off.

“Don’t touch that,” Peter scolds, “That’s nasty, man. Thirty years of grime.”

Ben wipes his hand on his pants, laughing it off. “I know, I know.”

“It is a bit odd, though.” Betty comments, arms crossed and recorder poking out between her fingers. “This house seems oddly decrepit for only thirty years.”

“Do ya think?” Kaine asks, curious rather than biting. “It’s old, isn’t it?”

“She’s right,” Peter says, glancing around. “Since none of the windows are broken aside from that recently cracked one, and the roof still appeared to be intact from outside, it’s safe to say this place is relatively water-tight. As far as we know, it was well kept until Mr. Norman’s death -- yet the walls are basically rotting away, which you’d see if it had been exposed to the elements or left to ruin before he died. This is an older house, so the materials used last longer. It’s better quality. It should’ve had another few decades before it started falling apart to this extent.”

He is, of course, talking about the staircase -- and now the doorways. It’s no surprise that the wallpaper is peeling and fading, but the amount of decay in the home seems… quick.

“Maybe a pipe burst.” Ben suggests hopefully.

Peter shrugs, “Maybe.”

“Good, good, all good.” Betty hums, nodding. “This is great information. Perhaps the haunting has sped up the decay of the house?”

“Could be…” Peter says, not entirely willing to believe that this place is haunted just yet. Not that he thinks it can’t be, it’s just that he’d love it if, for once, it was  _ just _ a creepy old house.

“If anyone here? If there is, would you announce your presence?” Betty asks the open air, moving slowly around the table. “There’s no need to be scared, we just want to ask a few questions.”

“She’s telling  _ it _ not to be scared?” Kaine mutters in faint disgust.

“Relax, Terminator.” Ben jokes, “You’re not admitting that you’re scared, are you?”

Their little brother snorts. “As if, jerk.”

Peter catches another movement at the corner of his eye. There’s still nothing there, but  _ twice _ is enough to set him edge. A rustling sound captures all of their attention. Betty perks up immediately.

“Hello? Is someone there?” she asks, holding out her recorder as she wanders around the table. There’s another rustle, and Peter sees part of the cloth over the table move. Betty gets in close to it, her eyes wide with the first sign of nerves.

From the sheet bursts… a rat. Betty lets out a yell, clapping a hand over her mouth. The rat scuttles away frantically, disappearing into the dark.

“Aw, jeez,” she mutters, pushing herself back up from her crouched position. “False alarm.”

Kaine snorts and Ben just smiles, “Don’t mind it, we’re just getting started,” he soothes.

They start moving towards the next room, through a set of glass double doors that lead to what looks like the kitchen. Peter passes by the spot where the rat had come from, only to pause when the sheet moves again. He glances down and sucks in a breath.

Toes.

A pair of feet poke out from the sheet, every toenail black as night. He can make out the faintest wisps of a soul; deep, deep gray. Almost black. Peter takes a deep breath, holds up the camera, and takes a picture. 

“Peter? You coming?” Ben calls from the door.

Peter glances up reflexively. “Yeah,” he responds, voice tight.

When he glances back down the feet are gone, but the feeling of dread has only intensified. He scurries over to his brother, not willing to stay a moment more in that room alone. 

“You saw something?” Ben whispers, falling back to stand beside Peter while Betty and Kaine wander around the large, outdated kitchen, their flashlights bouncing off of old pots and pans. 

“Yeah,” Peter whispers back, pulling up the camera. They both glance at the photo on screen, but rather than the feet Peter had seen, there’s just an odd, glowy blur. Not exactly solid evidence, but definitely strange seeing as the rest of the photo is stationary. “There was a pair of feet poking out, I swear it.”

“I believe you,” Ben promises. “I’ve been getting an odd feeling for the past few minutes.”

“How do you mean?” 

Ben’s face shifts into one of contemplation. “I don’t know… it’s a bit like… someone knocking on the door late at night. That feeling of trepidation that comes with it.”

_ Knocking on a door _ .

Peter glances at his brother, but Ben is already moving away, eyes a little brighter than usual. Brows furrowing, Peter follows him to the others. He wonders what kind of answers they’ll find tonight, if any. Will they be meaningful, or will they be damaging?

* * *

  
“Maybe we should try upstairs?” Betty offers a half-hour later, when the entire downstairs has been explored. 

Peter hasn’t seen anything else, but knows for a fact that the house is haunted and eyes are watching them. He grits his teeth and can’t help but look around, constantly catching movement at the edge of his vision. It’s playing with him -- or them. 

Just from the look of its feet, he can tell it seems to have the same complexion as the ghost that attacked him and Kaine. He looked into it. He thought about it for ages. But now that he’s seeing this for the second time, it’s clicking together. 

A poltergeist. 

In public, he’d seen spirits with horrid auras that wandered around like zombies and assumed them to be poltergeists. He remembers seeing them as a kid, remembers using his bracelet to keep them away. There’s a bracelet around his wrist even now, the second of its kind, as he’d given away the first -- though that memory is long gone. He’d always assumed it kept away the bad spirits, and it had done its job to keep away those limping, decaying ghosts. But maybe they weren’t the worst of it. Maybe they were the half-way between  _ ghost _ and  _ poltergeist. _ He’d never really thought about how a poltergeist came to be, or why those passive, quiet ghosts were different from the violent ones who threw people into walls and the like. 

He’d been wrong the whole time. The bracelet kept away  _ those  _ ghosts, who were slowly turning to poltergeists, but was not nearly strong enough to keep away a fully fledged one. It was made by a child, after all. The symbols did offer some kind of protection, of course. They just happened to be a little more passive than he needed.

Swallowing, Peter glanced down at the beads around his wrist. He remembers the look in the poltergeist’s eye when it had crawled its way from under their TV. Inhuman and terrifying, certainly, but also worryingly intelligent. And desperate. 

“That’s fine with me,” Ben says, “But we need to be careful, in case the stairs are actually rotted. It wouldn’t be safe.”

Betty looks slightly put out by the logic to Ben’s answer, but eagerly leads them down the hall all the same. Peter finds himself at the end of the line, shoulders hiked up around his ears with tension. As they pass the stair railings to get to the base, he sees a pair of feet directly beside him, standing on one of the steps. Peter doesn’t acknowledge them, refusing to even turn his gaze. He keeps walking and stops beside the rest of them at the base of the stairs. When he looks up the steps, there’s no one there.

“I guess I’ll go first…” Betty says, frowning lightly. It seems she took Ben’s warning of danger to heart. Gently, she puts her foot on the first step. It creaks heavily under her weight, but does not give. Another step, and another, until she’s half-way up. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s fine,” she grins down at them, urging them to follow with a wave of her hand. “Come on up, guys.”

Peter follows after her, refusing to be the last in line again. The stairs continue to creak heavily, and while he’s nervous that they’ll crumble under his weight and send him falling into whatever abyss exists underneath them, he manages to make it all the way up without incident. 

“Phew,” he sighs, turning to look down at his brothers. “That wasn’t so--ughk!”

He gasps sharply, stumbling back. Ben is only a few steps down, Kaine just behind him the camera up. When Peter makes his sound of surprise, Kaine whirls around with it, looking behind him.

“What?” he asks, voice trembling. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Peter says. “It’s nothing.”

Behind his brother is a figure. It’s no use avoiding its gaze now, he’d been so startled by its appearance there hadn’t been time to conceal his response. It looks far more like an actual person than the other poltergeist had -- maybe it’s not finished...spirit-baking, or whatever. While the skin is still chalky white and streaked with black, it’s definitely a man. He’s got a stern face, the expression all the more unsettling when combined with his wide, glaring eyes. And he’s looking directly at Peter. There is no doubt in Peter’s mind that the man is angry.

Forget trying to beat back his fear, Peter is  _ drowning  _ in it. He’s succumbed to waves of it and is far below the surface, no chance of rescue in sight.

“Don’t you lie to me,” Kaine says, voice strained, “I know you, peter.”

“Boys, what’s going on?” Betty asks, wandering back over from where she’d been checking out the hall. “Did you see something?”

Peter lifts his camera and takes a picture. “Yeah,” he finds himself finally admitting, lips numb. “I think I did. We should definitely leave.”

“What? You did!? And why? We can’t leave yet, especially if you saw something!” Betty exclaims, coming in close. 

Peter doesn’t take his eyes off the man, his brothers joining the two of them on the landing. Betty takes the camera from his hands, peering at the monitor. 

“Oh, wow,” she says, “I mean, it could be a lense flare, but there’s definitely...some kind of shape.”

Ben glances nervously at Peter, then down the staircase. His eyes land exactly in the area where the near-poltergeist is, sensing its growing presence but unable to actually see it.

“It’s still there,” he says.

Peter nods carefully. It feels like he’s stuck in a high-stakes staring contest. He doesn’t want to keep looking, but is too terrified to turn his gaze away and lose sight of the man. It’s like when you see a spider. Your fear increases when it leaves your line of sight.

“How can you tell?” Betty asks, giddy. She starts moving forward, about to take a step down.

“No!” Kaine snaps, pulling her back.

“Hey!” she exclaims, tugging her arm out of his grip. “What’s the big idea?”

“Shut up,” Kaine growls, “Don’t be stupid!  _ Look _ at him!”

Betty is quiet, and Peter can’t tell what kind of expression she has on her face, or what kind of expression  _ he _ has, but whatever it is, it seems to make her take the situation a little more seriously. 

“Peter?” she whispers, “What’s going on?”

The man takes a step. The wood creaks. 

Betty sucks in a sharp breath, her hand gripping his arm. He can barely feel it. It’s freezing, every part of his body numb and tingling. The thermometer beeps.

“14 d-degrees.” Ben stutters quietly. “He’s getting closer.”

“He?” Betty presses, her head turning towards Ben. “Guys, c’mon, this isn’t funny.”

“We can’t get out now,” Peter whispers, quieting her. “He’s blocked us in. We’d have to get past him to leave.”

“You see him?” 

“Yeah,” Kaine answers for him, “Surprise, Peter’s a ghost whisperer.”

“You can see ghosts!?” She yells, shaking his arm. “And you didn’t  _ tell _ me? Peter! We’re Paranormal Investigation Club buddies!”

“Well it’s not exactly something I like talking about in casual conversation!” He yells back..

“It should be when it’s  _ relevant _ to the casual conversation!”

“Less arguing!” Kaine interrupts, “More escaping!”

“Maybe he’s nice!” Betty offers, holding out her recorder and clicking it on. “Hello, if you’re there, can you identify yourself? Are you Terry Norman?”

The man’s eyes slide from Peter’s to Betty, and it makes ice slide down Peter’s spine. Out of everyone here, Betty is arguable the most vulnerable. While Ben has no physical ability like Peter or Kaine to defend himself, his ability to sense the poltergeist gives him an advantage. Funnily enough, Betty seems to possess  _ no _ spiritual ability. At all. The menace that this poltergeist is putting out makes the air feel like soup. Peter’s basically choking on it -- that, and the dust, which is an unfortunate combination. 

“He looks like he wants to murder us,” Peter reveals, hoping it’ll sway her, “So, no. I don’t think he’s friendly. I think we should leave before he kills us and we end up haunting this place forever, with our murderer for company.”

“I’m not spending eternity with you losers.” Kaine mutters, eyes wide with fear and darting all down the stairs. He doesn’t sense anything, doesn’t  _ see _ anything. But he trusts Peter.

“Mr. Norman?” Betty continues, “Just tell me if that’s you. Kaine are you still recording?”

“Am I still--” Kaine’s voice rises, cutting off when a dusty old photo, which had previously been hanging from the wall on the way up the stairs, flies off the wall and shatters across the steps.

They all let out screams, tripping backward as a group. Betty’s grip on his arm feels impossibly tight. 

“Oh my god!” She exclaims, except it’s coming from his right. Peter tenses. The hand is around his left arm. 

He can’t help it, he immediately whips his head around, only to come face to face with another poltergeist. This one is much farther along than the man on the stairs. Peter can no longer make out what gender they were, but if he has to guess, it’s probably the man’s wife -- Mrs.Norman, who’d died just a year before her husband. Peter opens his mouth and screams.

Maybe-Mrs.Norman shoves him down the stairs. Peter tumbles down, knees and elbows and head thumping into the wood. He lands in a heap at the base of the stairs and hears his brothers and Betty yelling, their footsteps thudding down after him. (At least he hopes it’s them.)

Hands grasp him, turning him over. He groans, his whole body feeling like a big bruise. Everything smarts, but luckily there’s no sharp pains -- he doesn’t think anything is broken. Even if something is, it’s not gonna stop him from bolting out of here and far, far away.

Kaine’s face swims into view, as does the face of Mr.Norman just behind him. Peter gasps again, fear splashed across his face. Before he can even say anything, Kaine rears around, fist cocked back, and  _ punches _ . His eyes are unseeing, so he’s reacting instinctively to Peter’s fear, but he manages to clock the almost-poltergeist directly in the chest. Kaine grunts when his fist makes contact, and this close, Peter can see the way the coffee-colored splash across his chest seemed to twist and flow to his arm. The man stumbles backwards and disappears from view.

“I got your glasses,” Betty exclaims frantically, jamming them on his face. Peter winces at the harsh treatment, but doesn’t think much of it. They’re all moving quickly, Ben and Kaine supporting Peter. Betty all but rips the front door open and they all tumble onto the porch. She slams it behind them, not even caring that it isn’t locked. 

“I forgot a flashlight in there--” Ben admits, when they’re half-way to the gate.

“Forget about it,” Betty shakes her head, rubbing her arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

“If you need a replacement..” Ben continues, though the Parker boys know quite well how careful they need to be with money.

“It’s fine, really.” Betty opens the gate. The four of them stand outside on the sidewalk, catching their breath. She pats at Peter’s face, hissing in sympathy at the blood dripping down his nose. “Oh, man, I’m sorry Peter…”

“It’s fine,” he lies. 

“It’s not,” she insists, guilt pulling at her pale features. “I didn’t listen when you said we should leave, and you got shoved down the stairs.”

“I’m still alive,” he shrugs. “You got some evidence, too.”

She bites her lip, two expressions that Peter can’t make out warring on her face. “It’s… not worth it if you get hurt, though.”

He smiles weakly, “It’s okay if you’re still excited about it, don’t let this ruin it.”

She purses her lips. “I guess. We can go over the evidence later, but I think we should head home now. It’s getting late and you should really get cleaned up.”

They all give her the borrowed equipment -- and Peter feels physical pain when he gives her the camera around his neck, which has clearly been damaged in the fall. She doesn’t say anything about it. She stuffs it all back in her backpack, then hops on a bike leaning against the concrete wall. It has a basket and ribbons attached to the handles. 

“See you guys monday,” she says quietly, worry in her expression. 

They wave her off before heading home.

Ben taps his arm gently as they walk. “You alright, Pete?”

He shrugs, “Feeling a bit like I just got beat up, but aside from that…” He turns to Kaine. “Dude, you punched a ghost.”

“I know! It was so awesome!” his little brother gushes, excitement bursting forth like water from a broken dam. Immediately after, he flashes Peter a guilty look. “Um, sorry.”

“I told you, I’m fine. Nothing I can’t sleep off.” Peter waves away their concern, “How did you manage to hit him?”

Kaine shrugs. “Well I couldn’t see him, if that’s what you’re asking. I just got really angry… and let loose. I saw where you were looking, so I assumed he must’ve been behind me.”

“Well I’m mad.” Ben exclaims. “I couldn’t even tell that there were two until it was too late! I thought it was just one super strong ghost.”

“Wait,” Kaine pauses, “You’re telling me there were  _ two _ ?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter replies. “One old guy on the stairs and something right behind us.”

Nervously, Kaine checks behind them, as if Peter is talking about something being behind them right at this moment. Not that he could see anything anyway if it didn’t feel like being seen.

“They weren’t regular ghosts.” Peter reveals, deciding to go ahead and consider his theory fact from this point forward. “They were both Poltergeists, though one looked a bit further gone than the other. I think that it’s a gradual process from docile ghost to poltergeist -- probably over a long period of time. Then… I guess they eventually hit rock bottom. The one that pushed me was full-formed, man.” 

“Ghosts have sub-classes now?” Kaine asks, tone dry. “Like a DND character?”

“Pretty sure they always had them, we just didn’t know.” Peter says, shivering. Even without flashlights, their path is illuminated by the light of the moon. He wonders if the poltergeists would have had that much power on a different night, when the moon wasn’t full. (He wonders if they were lucky they got out at all; if those poltergeists were just playing with them.)

Peter glances back the way they came, unable to make out the house anymore. You couldn’t pay him to go back in there. The three of them trudge onward, knocking dust from their coats and shivering, eager for the warmth of home.

* * *

  
“Where’d you get that bruise?” From over his newspaper, Uncle Ben peers at Peter, most of his expression hidden. Feet propped up in the reclining chair and the soft chatter of the TV in the background, he looks like he’s fully enjoying his day off from work. 

Peter glances up from his work, pushing his glasses up his nose carefully. They’d made it back in the house without their Aunt or Uncle noticing -- at least, they hoped so. Neither had approached any of the Parker boys about it yet. Even if they’d successfully gotten in and out of the house, there was no hiding the bruises Peter had sustained after being pushed down the stairs. Across his cheekbone is a particularly vicious looking one, deep purple and sticking out like a sore thumb. The only thing saving him from Aunt May’s worrying was the fact that she had left for work before he’d gotten anywhere near getting out of bed.

“Fell.” He shrugs, quickly thinking of a possible excuse. “Off the bunk. I fell off the bunk.”

Uncle Ben raises his eyebrows, lowering the paper. “And you didn’t think to tell one of us?”

Peter shrugs, “Wasn’t as bad as it looks, really.”

While his Uncle still looks suspicious, he eventually turns back to his paper. “If you say so.”

The thing about lying to Uncle Ben is that he always seems to know that you’re lying, even if you’re the best liar on the planet. Peter immediately feels a sense of nervousness, as one generally does when being caught out in a lie. But Uncle Ben is back to his newspaper, humming an old song by KC & The Sunshine Band that Peter can’t remember the name of. He doesn’t try to pry the answer from Peter, or even encourage him to tell the truth. And that makes Peter feel even worse because he knows that, while Uncle Ben may know he’s lying, he wants to give Peter the benefit of the doubt. 

He expects better from Peter, and Peter is left feeling crappy about the fact that he doesn’t meet those expectations. It’s a pretty effective method of guilting Peter into being a better person, or at least attempting to be.

Later that night, when they’re finishing up cleaning the kitchen after dinner, Uncle Ben strikes up another conversation.

“You know, Peter, you’re a lot like your dad.” he says, voice soft and eyes filled with a sort of painful nostalgia. 

Peter remains quiet, unsure of what to say. He had his parents for the first six years of his life, but being the earliest years, they were harder to remember. He and all his siblings have been with their Aunt and Uncle for eight years now. It almost feels like all he’s ever known -- it’s certainly all Teresa’s ever known. Those faint memories of his parents are getting harder to hold on to everyday, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. 

It hurts a little, like a dull ache -- a bruise being pressed on, or a loose tooth being wiggled. He wants to know more about his parents, really. Yet at the same time he doesn’t, because they’re dead and he doesn’t think knowing more about them will help. If anything, it will only hurt him even more, because he isn’t able to find out these things on his own.

“Sharp as a whip, brimming with ideas...got some pretty strong opinions, too.” Uncle Ben hands Peter a dish, who dutifully dries it and lets his Uncle continue speaking. “He was always so curious about the world, even as a kid. Wanted to know who, why, where and how. He finally settled on the sciences, much like you seem to have. Your father wanted to do a lot of good with his work, Pete.”

“I know.” He says, he remembers that much. “Mom too.”

Uncle Ben nods, “You’re right. Both your parents were good, smart people who wanted to use their gifts to make the world a better place. They didn’t have to. They both had the talent to succeed wherever they wanted, or to focus only on money. But they didn’t. It wasn’t about the money for them, it was about what they could give back. See, it would be a damn shame to be given a gift and not use it to the fullest extent. If you have the ability to help someone else, you should. Otherwise you’re only contributing to the problem and the world gets a little darker.”

The last dish is put away, and Peter is struggling to find words. He wonders if his Uncle has figured out that they’d snuck out last night and sees Peter as the mastermind. It isn’t exactly a wrong assumption, as all of his decisions led them to that path. He’d chosen to go in that house, so these bruises are no one’s fault but his own. Another part of him holds those words close to his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, he has these gifts of his for a reason. He was  _ born _ for a reason.

“What if you try to help and you just make it worse?” Peter asks, before they leave the kitchen. “What if no matter what you do it just isn’t good enough?”

“Peter,” Uncle Ben sighs, smiling softly and resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “It can be hard to make decisions sometimes, especially important ones that could greatly affect your life or the lives of others. You will make mistakes, and at times things  _ will _ seem bad. That’s just the way life is. We have our ups and downs, but you can’t let that rule you. At the end of the day, when all is said and done, you make whichever decision you know you would regret not taking. No matter the outcome, no matter the journey, you do the right thing.”

“How do I know what the right thing is?”

Uncle Ben ruffles his hair. “Choosing love. Choosing life. The  _ right thing _ has a million definitions, and all of them you’ll have to figure out on your own. Try, Peter. Because to do nothing will always be the wrong answer. I know you can do it.”

Can he? Peter isn’t so sure. He thinks his Uncle has a lot more faith in Peter than Peter has in himself.  _ I want to meet your expectations. _

If only those expectations weren’t Everest high.

“Why are you telling me this?” He asks.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Uncle Ben says, “I’ll be talking to your brothers, too. But you’re the oldest, Pete. Sometimes it’ll feel like you have an impossible weight on your shoulders because of it. Your siblings will come to you when they need help, remember that.”

Peter doesn’t think Kaine would ever willingly come to him for help, but he nods anyway. Growing older is a lot of work.


	10. and life goes on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ZeZone drew some PHENOMENAL artwork for this fic!!! It’s so cute, i was literally in tears when i saw it.... [check it out here !](https://zakeizawa.tumblr.com/post/611337855573393408/a-fanart-of-an-ao3-that-i-really-really-love-hard)

_“You will never get a second chance to make a first impression.”_

— Will Rogers

* * *

At school Monday morning, Betty greets them with a renewed sense of glee. 

“You have no idea how long this weekend felt,” she exclaims, fitting herself between Ben and Peter, sliding an arm through each of theirs. Peter and Ben are a good four or so inches taller than her, so meet each other’s gazes over her head with fond amusement at her familiar affection. 

“Trust me, we know.” Peter says, “I could sense you stewing from miles away.”

“Don’t joke with me, Peter Parker!” She reprimands, “For all I know, you could be serious! What else are you able to do, aside from seeing ghosts?”

“Getting right into it, huh,” Ben comments dryly.

The sound of the bell disrupts their walk through the hall, and Betty groans.

She drops their arms, “Lunch.” The single word is punctuated by a finger jabbing threateningly in their direction. “We _will_ talk.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Ben jokes, saluting her as she saunters down the hall to her locker. “What are we gonna tell her?”

Peter shrugs, stopping at his own locker to shove his coat in the too-small space. “I dunno, the basics? Only answer what she asks, as long as it doesn’t get too deep. Not that I think we can’t trust her… but…”

“Sometimes it feels like she’s gearing to publish a fully fledged documentary.” Ben finishes. “And I, for one, have no interest in being the star of it.”

“Exactly,” Peter agrees. “I’m fine with ghost hunting and researching, because I want to find out more about all this… but telling her too much could be dangerous. Not that I blame her, this is kind of her life’s work at this point.”

“Maybe if we’re still friends in ten years and she’s got a real job and less interest in exposing the supernatural, then we can tell her.” Ben jokes, shrugging off his own jacket. His cheeks are pink from the frigid air, hair spiked with gel. Frankly, Peter thinks it looks ridiculous. At least the styling helps others tell them apart. Peter doesn’t have the time to deal with his mess of curls, styling it in the morning would impede on his sleeping time.

“Yeah, maybe.” He murmurs softly. “Guess we’ll have to see.”

As it turns out, lunch comes quicker than either of them would have liked. By the time both of them had their lunch trays in hand, Betty was already jumping up and down by an empty table to catch their attention, her arms waving. 

“Oh, geez,” Ben laughs nervously.

Peter flushes in embarrassment as eyes track Betty’s obnoxious movements and, therefore, Peter and Ben as they sit down. He scowls at the table reflexively, brow furrowing deeply. 

Betty shoves her food to the side, arms resting on the table before her. “So, spill.”

“Where do you want to start?” Ben prompts when it becomes obvious Peter isn’t going to start.

“Can you see ghosts? Or is it just Peter? And what exactly do you mean by _see_ ghosts? Full form, shadow, faint outline — and is it constant or were you just lucky that night? As you know, I’ve seen ghosts myself, so while the phenomenon is amazing—”

“Whoa!” Ben waves his hands to slow her gushing questions. “Take a breath. Lemme just start with those first few. I only see ghosts circumstantially, and by that I mean when they _want_ to be seen. Much like your experiences. Peter sees them 24/7, they can’t hide from him.”

“They’re full figures, too.” Peter finally chimes in, sighing deeply and twirling his half-cooked peas with a plastic fork. “And like Ben said, it’s constant. As far as I know, people like you and Ben only see them when they want to be seen, during the full moon, or if the ghost is extremely strong.”

“Ok, but how come I didn’t see it? The ghost was strong enough to push Peter down the stairs _and_ it was a full moon!” Betty frowns, “I didn’t even notice anything until you guys pointed it out.”

Ben and Peter exchange glances.

“Hey,” Betty pouts, “No twin speak, it’s unfair.”

Peter sighs again, propping his head on his hand and tapping his chin with his fingers. “Well, even though the ghost was pretty strong and it was a full moon, Ben and Kaine didn’t see it either. Meaning it wasn’t exactly trying to be seen — but didn’t hide its presence either.”

“Yeah, I thought I was gonna drown until the weight of its presence,” Ben shivers. “It was _not_ happy to have us there.”

Betty’s frown deepens. “I’m telling you, I didn’t feel anything.”

“Well…” Ben purses his lips. “I’m not entirely sure how to word this…”

“Just hit me with it.”

Peter looks Betty in the eye, “You have no sensory ability.”

Betty borrows her eyes, but not in an aggressive manner. “Why do I get the feeling that you guys are a lot more knowledgeable about this subject than you’re letting on. I thought we were supposed to be friends, guys. _Paranormal Investigation Club_. Explain.”

“I,” Peter puts his hand on his chest, “Have been able to see ghosts for as long as I can remember. No matter where I am, or what time of day it is. I’ve done a lot of personal research to figure out the world that I see. From what I can tell, humans are on a spectrum of Extra-sensory levels. The highest form is what I have, which means I see ghosts all the damn time. The lowest form would be… like you. I think. A ghost could give off an extreme presence or malicious intent, and you wouldn’t feel a lick of it. However, your eyes can still see them if they choose to reveal themselves, because they’re condensing their energy into a corporeal form, allowing them to be seen on this plane of existence.”

“Well, that’s shitty.” Betty swears, shoulders slumping. “I believe you, of course, how could I not after what happened the other day… but it sucks.”

Ben lays a consoling hand on her arm. “Hey, it’s nothing, really. You can still use machines to capture their presence and get your proof.” 

“I guess.”

Peter snorts, “Don’t be so down. Trust me, I’d love to be like you and not have to deal with any of this.”

“I love it though,” Betty complains, “All I _want_ to do is deal with it. You have no idea what I’d give to be in your shoes.”

Peter stabs his fork into a pea. He wonders if she’d still want his abilities if she knew what kind of dangers followed him around -- how his parents had been killed by the very creatures she loved to study. He can feel the reprimand on the tip of his tongue, but swallows it down sourly when Ben levels him with a warning look. 

“Well if we could switch, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Later, when they’re walking home, Ben elbows him sharply in the gut.

“Ow!” Peter scowls, rubbing his now tender side. “What was that for?”

“That was cruel, Peter. And you know it.” 

“She said she’d love it,” he mutters, “What’s so wrong about me saying I’d give it away?”

Ben tightens his grip on his backpack straps, burrowing his rosy nose into his scarf. “It’s not funny. You know the kind of danger we’re exposed to. I know you don’t want it, but it’s not funny to foist that kind of threat onto someone else.”

“It was a joke, relax.” Peter replies dryly. “It’s not like I can give it away anyway. Jeez, you’ve been listening to Uncle Ben, huh.”

“He’s right, though. It’s your gift, and what you do with it is up to you.” 

Peter can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, ok.”

Ben grabs his arm. “I’m serious, Pete. You’re good at ignoring everything bad and running away, but you can’t run forever. This is your life.”

“I’m not running.”

Ben smiles, and it’s a sad, quiet thing, an expression Peter very rarely sees on his twin’s face. “Oh, Pete,” he says, low and soft like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “You’re always running, it’s a wonder your asthma hasn’t acted up.”

* * *

Peter doesn’t like to think about anything beyond the pursuit of knowledge. He doesn’t see it as running, doesn’t see it as selfish. To him, wouldn’t bothering people about his own thoughts and feelings be selfish? They don’t _need_ to know, and all it would do is cause more stress. Their lives are stressful enough as it is. 

While in high school, Peter comes to many realizations. The Parker family purchases their clothes from thrift stores, they don’t waste food, can’t afford to replace things that break, and rarely spend money on _wants,_ always focusing on _needs._ His clothes always look more worn than his fellow students’, he’s had the same ratty, battered folder to use for school since elementary and it’s _literally_ in pieces. All that’s holding it together is duct tape and willpower. 

When they rip holes in the knees of their jeans, they’re either left alone or patched with spare fabric. New clothes are only bought when they’re falling apart at the seams or the kids have grown out of them. Hearing Betty talk about her family and the casual spending of money makes him nervous. It makes his skin crawl. For a while, Peter doesn’t realize that what he’s feeling is shame. Embarrassment. 

Because kids are cruel, they zero in on the fact that he and his brother look visibly poor. Maybe they don’t exactly _realize_ that Peter and Ben are from a poor family, but they do realize that the two of them aren’t as put together as the rest. He thinks Betty knows, too. But she doesn’t seem to care. 

Peter doesn’t get it either. How much money he has now doesn’t affect his ability to wipe the floor with every other student in an academic setting. His dream is to make it big, big enough to make tons and tons of money so his family doesn’t have to work so hard any more. 

The Parkers are a bit of a slapstick family. Their routines don’t allow things like family dinners or outings or really anything that involves all of them in one setting. Having all six of them in the house at the same time is rare, and all of them being available for family events while home is even rarer. Every Parker child excels at school, so the focus is generally completing hours of homework. 

They don’t do sports -- not that Peter or Ben want to. Kaine and Teresa do, however. Kaine knows enough to never ask about it, even though Peter has caught him staring longingly at basketball courts and kids throwing around footballs. They can’t afford to buy sports equipment. Teresa asked about signing up for gymnastics, and while their Aunt and Uncle want to provide them with the ability to learn and grow, they couldn’t let her. For one, there was no way for Teresa to get to and from gymnastics with their hectic work schedules, and secondly, training would take a chunk out of their paychecks every month. A chunk that was needed to provide enough food every week for six mouths -- three of which were rapidly growing boys.

So, yes. Peter came to the realization that his family was poor. Lower-middle class. At school a majority of students averaged at middle class, with two parents and a white picket fence and a dog and new notebooks every school year. It wasn’t fair that his Aunt and Uncle had to struggle so hard just for them to survive. 

America didn’t like poor people. 

It was ridiculously difficult to pull yourself out of poverty. People walked by the homeless on the street with derision, but Peter only held sympathy. When he was a little younger, his Uncle had given away money to a man on the street.

Peter hadn’t understood why at the time. 

“Why do that?” he’d asked. “You don’t know what he’ll do with it. It could be something bad!”

His Uncle had put a hand on his shoulder as they’d walked away, “It’s not our business what a person does with a gift. They get to decide what to do with it, and that’s on them. No matter the case, you can’t deny that they’re struggling -- and if you can help, why shouldn’t you? The point is, Peter, that no matter what happens, offering someone help when they need it is always the right thing to do.” 

Once you hit rock bottom, you had to claw tooth and nail to pull yourself back up. Many people couldn’t hack it, and Peter couldn’t really blame them. Everywhere you turned there was another roadblock. The cost of living and higher education was increasing, especially as the digital age took storm.

Peter doesn’t like to think about anything beyond the pursuit of knowledge. There is a good reason for that. (At least in his eyes.)

He, especially, doesn’t like to think about what happened to him in regards to Skip. Unfortunately, those thoughts do tend to stick with him. When he’s alone, staring at the ceiling at 2 AM, he counts those stars and thinks. It’s not that he wants to, it’s just that he can’t help but wonder about the what-ifs. Wonder about what it means for _him_.

Because Skip was a boy -- a _man_ \-- and so was Peter. People didn’t talk about it. They called Skip awful, dreadful names, all of which were acceptable and true, but they didn’t talk to Peter about what it _meant._ He was, fortunately, a teen with a healthy interest in knowledge and therefore spent much of his time at the library, where he had access to both the internet and old news articles. 

Skip was -- _is_ a pedophile. 

That was obvious. It’s something Peter already knows, and always has since the incident. (He’d been hooked on the recent release of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. It’s now a show he hasn’t been able to watch since.)

Skip is also a homosexual. 

Now, Peter doesn’t exactly know how to feel about that. When he tries to think about it, he mostly feels numb, or a dull, simmering heat in his gut that’s a lot like rage. He feels angry a lot. Almost all the time. Over anything and everything -- especially about this. _This_ being the fact that he doesn’t know what to feel. 

It’s confusing. He hates it, hates being confused and not being able to obtain the answer through research. Because it’s _him_. It’s all his thoughts and emotions, so shouldn’t he know that? Why is it so difficult to make sense of himself?

There aren’t very many friendly articles about people who are homosexual. It is, however, fascinating to learn how the gay community progressed over the decades. Aunt May had taught him that it wasn’t his place to judge others, so while the initial idea was odd in his head from lack of exposure, he certainly didn’t hold any hateful feelings like all these old white men seemed to. 

It took him a few days of research to separate _Gay_ from _Pedophile._ Seeing as Skip was his first introduction into the subject, he didn’t think he could be blamed for it. But he certainly felt bad about it. All these people who were fighting for their rights and being spit on for it -- it rattled his bones and made him feel ashamed that he’d thought, even for a second, that they were all like Skip.

There’s nothing wrong with being in love.

There isn’t.

But Peter thinks about Skip and his gut _lurches._ He thinks of boyish smiles and the bright blue eyes of the guy who sits three seats to the right of him -- and he locks those thoughts away. _Absolutely not,_ he thinks. _Absolutely not._

People can love whoever they want, that much is true. Peter likes girls, and only girls. He can’t fathom anything else right now, especially when he’s already struggling with every other aspect of life. (It’s impossible.) Everyone looks a little. Everyone wonders, right? He’s normal. He’s not gay. He likes girls.

 _He does._ He thinks Betty is pretty, his heart stutters in his chest when she presses close, chattering excitedly in his ear even when it’s just about some new ghost hunting documentary. He also thinks Liz Allan is pretty, a little airheaded, but very pretty. She’s also supposedly infatuated with Flash Thompson, who routinely enjoys making Peter’s life a living hell.

So he likes girls. Therefore he can’t like boys.

(And no, he doesn’t want to think about it. He wants to lock every thought that says otherwise in a box. Wants to throw away the key and bury the box a million miles underground, where it’ll disintegrate from the heat of the earth’s core.)

“I’ll tell Aunt May you’re feeling sick.” Ben says one morning, when Peter has done nothing but stare at the ceiling for the full thirty minutes he’s been awake. His brothers are already dressed, Kaine out of the room and brushing his teeth.

“Thanks,” Peter mutters, rolling back over and pulling the covers over his head. For some reason, the sight of the stars is making him sick.

He hears the bedroom door close and shuts his eyes, trying to will himself back to sleep. Bad days happen and to his relief, his twin always seems to know _when_ they happen. Peter has never loved having a brother with precognitive dreams more than on days like these. He doesn’t have to talk, doesn’t need to force words or excuses past his exhausted lips. It’s not good, obviously, to stay home. 

He does anyway.

* * *

“Watch where you’re going, Puny Parker.” 

Peter’s books are knocked from his hands, spilling across the hallway floor. Papers are trampled on and other students twist out of the way to ignore the oncoming confrontation. 

Flash shoves Peter in a distinctly unfriendly manner.

Peter scowls, fists clenched at his sides. “Why don’t _you_ watch where you’re going?”

“I’m not the puny nerd with no presence, how can you blame this on _me?_ ”

“You knew exactly what you were doing, jerk.” Peter finally relents and fumbles to pick up his books off the floor before everything is ruined. 

Flash laughs, his knee colliding with Peter’s side. He lets out an oof and gets knocked off balance, banging his elbow harshly on the floor.

“Oops,” the bigger teen grins with too many teeth.

Peter looks up at the other and seethes. He hates being here. There was a time when he’d loved school. He’d loved the halls and the learning and the influx of information and getting out of the house. Now he couldn’t wait to go home. He dreads getting up every day just to come here, hates seeing Flash’s dumb face and stupid, beady eyes. 

(Hates that they were actually nice eyes, attached to a nice face. Hates that Flash is gifted with looks and strength, no asthma to hold him back.)

Flash disappears when the bells rings and Peter is left to pick up all his fallen materials. The crappy folder holding his math worksheets is now torn in half. It’ll have to be stapled together once more. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, holds his rumpled books and papers to his chest, and ends up walking into class late. 

He’s scolded, of course. The best grades in the school can’t seem to save him from that. If anything, they scrutinize him harder because of it. He messes up even a _little_ and suddenly every teacher thinks he’s a problem child who’s throwing away his promising future. Peter wishes he had the guts to tell them to _stuff it where the sun don’t shine._

Why can’t people mind their own business? 

_I don’t understand you,_ they say, as if they have some prominent role in his life.

 _I don’t want you to,_ he thinks but never voices. _I don’t want to be understood, I want to be left alone._

“Grumpy today,” Betty comments at lunch. She recently got a haircut, her dark hair choppy around her shoulders and her forehead covered by straight bangs. He thinks she looks cute, but can’t seem to voice it. His tongue ties itself in knots whenever he tries. Peter wonders if he’d think the same if she was a boy.

“Just Flash,” Peter grunts. “Being annoying as usual.”

“I oughta give him a piece of my mind,” she mutters, black painted lips frowning heavily. “Why’s he gotta be such a jerk? All he’s doing is putting out negative energy. The world doesn’t need more of that.”

“The world doesn’t need _him_.”

Ben snorts around his straw, milk carton bubbling. “Whoa there, _Kaine_. A little dark don’t you think? I mean he’s an asshole, yeah…”

“Whatever. I’m just tired of him.” 

Betty thumps him on the back in a show of sympathy. “It’s okay, you have us! Just forget about him. Think about what’s important!”

“By _important_ , do you mean ghosts?” Peter asks, dry as a desert.

“ _Ghosts_ , Pete!” 

“Shocker.” Ben comments quietly.

“Did your Aunt and Uncle say it was cool for you guys to come over this weekend?” she asks, ignoring the gentle teasing.

“Yeah,” Peter mumbles, stuffing his mouth with a PB&J. 

“And your missing piece?” 

Ben laughs, “Kaine’s not our secret triplet, Bets.”

She waves her hands, fork grasped tight in one of them and sending a carrot slice flying. “He’s literally identical! I’m telling you, it’s totally conspiracy theory worthy! _What if he was_ , and no one told you!”

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes, Peter,” she stresses, “Because I’m _right_.”

“I don’t think you are, but yes, Kaine is coming too.” Ben says, quite obviously amused. “He wouldn’t miss it. I think you’ve got him hooked on supernatural research lately.”

“Since the club didn’t work out at school...my house will have to do from now on. Kaine can be the fourth official member!” Betty had been down the past few days when the club deadline had passed and no other potential members had come forward. The school wouldn’t recognize the Paranormal Investigation Club as _official_. Which meant they didn’t really have permission to stay after school in one of the open rooms like other clubs. Betty, not willing to let her dream die, had quickly suggested an alternative. Her house. On weekends. 

“He’ll love it,” Ben grins, lying through his teeth. “We should make little pins to make it official!”

Peter cannot believe those words just came out of his own twin’s mouth. “Don’t you enable her!”

“Too late!” Betty claps her hands gleefully. “That’s a great idea! Ohhhh, I’ll have to think of some cool designs…”

“What’s the topic of this session?” Peter asks, desperate for a topic change. There’s no way he’s ever going to wear that pin to school. Not even if Betty bats her eyes at him.

“Vampires.”

Peter and Ben look at each. “Vampires?” They repeat in unison.

Betty nods solemnly. “Yeah, I thought it would be best if we branched out to other areas of study. While I love ghosts, we can’t leave out the other creatures that go bump in the night.”

“But...Vampires?” Peter asks again, disbelieving and highly skeptical. 

“What?” Betty crosses her arms. “You see ghosts but vampires can’t be real?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Ghosts _clearly_ have more of a scientific explanation. Vampires, however, do not. There’s simply no proof. Just fanatics and people who are clearly messed up in the head.”

The possibility of their existence is astronomically low. Not impossible, just incredibly, _highly_ unlikely. Too much of the myth that’s available to the public doesn’t make sense. If there _was_ some creature out there that the concept of the media-popular ‘vampire’ is based on, it was probably _wildly_ different than anything humanity expects.

“Never say never,” is all Betty says in return, and Peter can only agree, albeit silently. He’s not about to start believing in them, but he won’t discredit their existence entirely when he hasn’t been given concrete proof for or against it.

(Peter wonders, for instance, if a vampire would have a soul. Were they dead or alive? Could they be another form of ghost?)

* * *

Betty’s house is huge. No, that’s not entirely correct. It’s big, certainly. Definitely larger than the Parker residence, which crams six people in a home meant for three. Betty has an older brother named Bennet, but he’s already graduated and off at law school. It’s just her and her parents in this big house that could fit the entire Parker family and have room to spare. She has her own room, which Peter doesn’t think much of because Teresa has her own room too. They’re both girls, so that probably has something to do with it. He does wonder what it would be like to have his own space and not have to share everything with his brothers. It seems like it’s all he’s ever known at this point, but he can’t say he loves it all the time. If given the opportunity he’d love to have his own room.

He doesn’t even have his own _clothes_. The three of them are the same size, so they share all articles of clothing to save money. Teresa ends up wearing a lot of their hand-me-downs, and Peter hopes she doesn’t get teased too terribly at school for wearing boys clothes. That being said, he can’t imagine anyone would ever tease Teresa, as she gives off the kind of energy that attracts people to her. She has no shortage of friends, and the only bully she’d ever encountered had stopped real quick after she popped him in the nose. (Uncle Ben and Aunt May weren’t happy with her use of violence to end conflict, but were proud that she’d stood up for herself.)

Betty’s parents don’t seem to know what to make of the three boys knocking at their door at 10am. Her father is the one who opens the door, and he’s a man of average height with already graying hair and Betty’s eyes. 

“You must be the Parker boys,” he says as a greeting. “Betty told us you were all part of her little club.”

Peter isn’t sure what to make of the tone Mr. Brant uses. It doesn’t sound derisive, but it doesn’t sound supportive either.

“Peter,” he introduces, holding his hand out. Her father shakes it belatedly, swinging the door open so they can come in.

“I’m Ben!” his twin greets, smiling widely and shaking Mr. Brant’s hand with gusto. “And this is Kaine! Don’t mind him, he’s a big grump.”

“I can introduce myself,” Kaine grumbles, easily matching Ben’s description of him. He shakes Mr. Brant’s hand as well and doesn’t say anything more, shoulders hunched. 

“Dad, no interrogating!” Betty calls, and Peter peers past Mr. Brant to see her bounce into the room. The entrance way is tiled, with a rack for shoes and a stand for coats. The stairs leading to the second floor are wide and white, and the walls are painted a light blue. 

“Come on,” she says, waving her hand for them to follow as she makes her way up the stairs. “We can use the office!”

“Door open!” Mr. Brant says, “And no funny business!”

“No funny business!” Betty promises, rolling her eyes. “Only ghost business!”

Upstairs is just as bright as downstairs, with pretty paintings lining the hall and a wide, arched window at the end, where there’s a loft that peers down into the kitchen on the first floor. 

The first door leads to Betty’s room, and it’s the first time Peter’s ever been in a girl’s room, so he’s a little nervous. (Teresa didn’t count, obviously.) In fact, it’s his first time at a friend’s house, period. Kinda sad, for being almost fifteen years old.

Betty’s room is pale purple, though you’d be hard pressed to take note of that, as every inch of wall space is covered with posters and notes. On the opposite wall is a huge bay window slash reading nook with dark purple and black pillows. Her bed is pressed against the left wall, immaculately made with black sheets and a comforter with little green aliens on it. It looks absolutely nothing like what Peter expected a girl’s room to look, but seeing as it’s _Betty,_ he’s not entirely surprised. It fits her, perfectly clean yet somehow bursting with way too much supernatural paraphernalia.

She stops at her desk, grabbing some books and papers. “Ok, guys, let's take a seat and officially start this meeting!”

Kaine rolls his eyes but follows his brother’s movements when both Peter and Ben sink to the floor. Betty sits too, completely their little four-point circle. She places her gathered materials on the floor in front of.

“Dracula!” She exclaims excitedly. 

Kaine, predictably, looks suitably unamused. “By Bram Stoker? Really? You’re using that as source material?”

Ben rifles through the other books, brows raised. “Salem’s Lot? Are these all just novels that have to do with vampires?”

Betty puffs out her cheeks, looking a little sheepish. “Well...you know…”

Peter glances at the papers, all meticulously printed out. “Potential vampires in history...potential abilities….huh, you really went all out, didn’t you?”

“What’s the point of this?” Kaine grumps, “Vampires aren’t real. Ghosts are. Last I checked, this was a Paranormal Investigations Club, and Paranormal is not interchangeable with Supernatural.”

“Technically, Supernatural could be an umbrella turn that includes Paranormal.” Ben points out. “So everything that’s Paranormal is Supernatural, but not everything that’s Supernatural is Paranormal.”

“Thanks. That was riveting. What was the point?” Kaine asks dryly. 

“Potentially,” Peter fills in, voice heavy with skepticism, “There could be more beyond the Paranormal that falls into the category of Supernatural, but Ben’s just reaching. That’s a matter of linguistics, not reality.”

Betty taps a black painted nail against her chin, “Well, imagine it was reality. Imagine the topic of vampires became so widespread and known because there was some truth to the stories.”

“OK, let’s say there is a possibility.” Peter says, “You do realize a lot of superstition around vampires was born through stories about Vlad the Impaler and disease during the Middle Ages. In fact, I’m pretty sure most of the supposed legends were just exaggerations of war stories.”

“Ok, but,” Betty points at Peter, “Consider this… there’s truth to those stories.”

Kaine snorts. “As if.”

Ben frowns, looking contemplative. “Well, like she keeps saying, we can’t exactly disprove their existence entirely.”

Betty picks up a notebook from her pile, a pencil procured from thin air. “What I want you to do is what you do best, _talk_.”

The boys share glances.

“Talk?” Peter repeats.

“Talk.” Betty confirms. “You three are crazy smart. Well — I’m assuming Kaine is just as smart as you two — but you know all the fancy science terms and stuff, yeah? You can just spit out your thought process and I’ll do my best to record it all.”

“O...okay.” 

“Well,” Ben begins, “From what I can tell, the idea that a creature can exist in a permanent state of death while still being able to move as someone who’s alive is impossible. And I don’t mean in the way ghosts can exist, obviously, because in the case of vampires they have a physical body.”

Peter joins in, “Look at it this way. There are countless theories about alternate realities, dimensions and planes of existence. It’s also proven that humans give off energy, as does the earth. If a ghost — otherwise known as a soul — is just energy, what if it’s only able to hold its form by existing in a different plane of existence that is only visible to a select few? Otherwise wouldn’t energy just naturally disperse? That’s just a theory, of course—but what I’m getting at is that undead creatures literally can’t exist. When you die, your body releases your soul. Your body begins to decay.”

“Therefore,” Kaine drawls, “A vampire can’t actually be dead, because a body would be unsustainable after death, and if the soul is still present then they aren’t actually dead.”

Betty taps the pencil to her lips. “Ok, so what if vampires aren’t dead, but still exist.”

Peter glances at his brother. “Well, if we look at it this way, perhaps it’s an affliction. You’re basically human, in the whole lifespan, health and body aspect, but.. consume… blood?”

Kaine grimaces. “I mean, I guess. Even though that doesn’t make a lot of sense biologically.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Ben sticks his pointer finger up, waving it around in a circle. “There’s still a lot about our own earth we haven’t discovered, never mind the possibilities existing in space. You can’t say something doesn’t exist until there’s proof stating otherwise. That includes vampires, or the potential for humans that require blood to survive and possibly have abilities beyond natural comprehension.” When Betty jots a few notes down, Ben levels Peter and Kaine with a significant look.

Peter frowns. Their gifts, to his understanding, are entirely made up of energy.

OK, that’s a lie. He barely understands his gift, never mind his siblings’. A Sixth Sense is likely the result of excess energy, or maybe just a special kind of energy within the soul. In the case of Kaine and other Marked individuals, Peter is at a loss. There had to be some kind of event that sparked the appearance of a Gift, but what was it? Was it different for everyone? Was it possible for anyone to become Marked? Did he have it all wrong and people were just born that way? 

“What, like hypnosis or.. super strength?” Betty looks intrigued.

“Or psychic abilities, such as precognitive dreams.” Ben mutters.

Peter glares at his brother. _Subtle._ But he understood the reprimand. Why believe in one and not the other? Of course, even if Peter couldn’t explain Ben’s Sixth Sense, he knew it to be real because the results were undeniable and he’d witnessed them first hand.

“Oddly specific,” Betty comments, “and a little unrelated to vampires, but I get your point. Please continue.”

“What’s the point, then, of those stories about vampires having no reflection and being sensitive to garlic, sunlight, and a stake through the chest?” Kaine folds his arms. “Any person would die getting stabbed through the heart, and not having a reflection is literally impossible.”

“True,” Ben mumbles, leaning back on his hands. “Say the reflection thing is a lie, and the stake-through-the-heart is an overzealous observation. It wouldn’t be ridiculous to say, if we’re going the affliction route, that a vampire could be sensitive to sunlight. People already deal with that, and they aren’t vampires.” 

“That we _know_.” Kaine smirks, elbowing Ben. 

“That we know,” Ben amends, taking Kaine’s teasing with a grain of salt. “And the garlic thing could also be a possible allergic reaction, or just superstition.”

“To be frank, a realistic vampire wouldn’t be anything like all these works of fiction depict.” Peter announces, flipping through _Salem’s Lot_.

“Well that’s judging by the current standards of known reality.” Kaine says flippantly. “Like Ben said, there’s a whole lot on this earth and beyond we don’t know yet.”

“What we’re certain of is that a vampire can’t be dead and it’s highly unlikely that they’re anywhere close to immortal.” Ben concludes. “A body cannot move without working organs, brain function or a heartbeat. _That’s_ been proven.”

“I’ll agree with that,” Betty shrugs, “But man, all these theories are great! I can’t wait until we start on werewolves next week!”

“Next week?” Kaine exclaims.

“Werewolves?” Peter deadpans at the same time. “Really?”

“Yes, to both!” Betty gestures wildly with her hands, “But don’t say anything yet! This week is about vampires, and vampires only! There’s still too much to talk about, there will be _no_ distractions!”

The conversation continues on in the same manner for another hour or so, until Betty has almost a whole novel in notes and her hand has started cramping. She’s shaking it out and babbling excitedly about the next meeting.

Peter, Ben and Kaine have to leave, unable to stay more than about two hours. Aunt May is working today and needs the car, so she’s picking them up from Betty’s to bring home before going on to work. 

“Maybe next week the meeting can last a little longer,” Ben shrugs, crouching down by the bottom of the stairs to retie his shoes. “I feel like we can come up with a lot more crazy theories concerning werewolves than we can with vampires.”

“You mean more theories about how there’s no way they exist, right?” Kaine yawns, then flashes his brother a look that makes him resemble Peter even more than he usually does.

“Don’t be so negative!” Betty claps him on the shoulder, “You never know!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters sourly, rubbing his arm.

“See ya around, Bets!” Ben waves, grinning widely and bouncing out the door. He’s quickly followed by Kaine, who offers no goodbye, and Peter, who gives her an awkward wave and a nod. Aunt May is parked on the street, the old minivan looking embarrassingly out of place. Even the Brant’s mailbox looks in better shape than the Parker’s van.

The three boys tumble into the car quickly.

Betty waves by the door as they drive away and Peter watches her black-clad figure until she’s out of sight.

“Do you like her?” Ben whispers, somewhere between serious and teasing. 

Peter flushes. “Shut up.”

“That’s not a no!” 

Kaine scoffs from the back-most seat but says nothing, nose almost pressed to the window as he watches the world speed by.

Peter slumps further in his seat, trying to drown out Ben’s questioning gaze by focusing on the off-tune singing of their Aunt to some poppy song blasting on the radio.

“It’s not a yes, either.” he grumbles. “I don’t know, man. Just forget about it.”

Ben’s eyes feel like physical weights. Peter can’t stand this side of his brother, who seems to peer into Peter’s very soul (no pun intended) and find out every little secret. There is no hiding from one who dreams of everything. Sometimes Peter wants his thoughts to be his own.

“Yeah, okay.” Ben relents, and Peter can’t see the frown on his brother’s face but he can hear it in his voice. 

Eventually, Ben will find out all that Peter is trying to hide. Peter hopes that before this time comes, he’ll figure out himself what the hell is happening. Emotions are awful, complex things that he can’t seem to stomach analyzing. No matter how many times he says he’s fine, his own mind doesn’t seem to get the memo and it’s really starting to bug him.

Aunt May drops them off, and the three of them wave as she drives away for a 10 hour shift at the hospital. 

“Who’s on dinner duty?” Ben asks as Peter unlocks the door.

“You know full well it’s you,” Kaine mutters, “You’re not getting out of it.”

* * *

In the spring, Peter finds himself flat on his back and staring at the sky. He’s not there out of his own volition and he’s certainly not comfortable. It’s lunch block, and many of the students are eating out in the school yard because the weather is nice and the snow had melted away for the last time three weeks ago. His face is throbbing and gravel pokes uncomfortably into his back with a vengeance. 

There’s a circle of kids around him, a mixed bag of laughing faces and hands-to-mouths in shock. Flash Thompson stands above him, smirking in victory and malicious intent, one fist hovering in the air before him.

It was that very fist that had laid Peter out on his back. He deliberates on moving at all. Blood trickles down his cheek, hot yet barely noticeable compared to the incredible ache in his nose. He’s scared, of course. Humiliated, too. No one reaches to help him, no one risks standing up to Flash, with his easy strength and pretty face. 

In his chest blooms a galaxy of rage, filling his lungs until he can barely breathe. Peter touches his lip and feels liquid on his fingers. When he pulls his hand away it’s smeared with deep vermilion. 

“C’mon, Puny Parker, _ghost_ got your tongue?” Flash goads, and his words bring about a chorus of laughs from the crowd.

Peter pushes himself up on his hands and spits out a glob of spit and blood. His tongue is coated with the sharp tang of iron and it makes him sick. It reminds him of his mother, of a window and the sound of a ceiling fan. If he speaks, there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll cry. It’s not even that he’s sad, or so scared it brings tears to his eyes, he’s just overflowing with rage and has no other way to express it. He’s too weak to do anything with it, so it seeps from him like the blood sliding down his skin. (But he’s not there yet. He’ll die before he cries at school.)

“Really?” he says, voice low, “We’re using the ghost thing today? What, run out of other subjects to bully me on?”

“I could never run out. The possibilities are endless when it comes to you.”

“Ugh,” Peter groans, “The whole nit-picking individual traits is so tiring, can’t you just call me a loser in a general sense and be done with it?”

“You like hearing yourself speak or somethin’?” The crowd is rowdy, getting too much of a kick out of their back-and-forth. It’s usually how it goes, most of the people there are Flash’s goons or people trying to stay in his good graces. The general rule of Midtown High is to ignore bullying when you see it, because if you don’t then it’ll be _you_ getting your head shoved in a locker or your face rearranged by a football quarterback with too much testosterone.

“Who else am I supposed to hold intelligent conversation with?”

The jab at his intelligence does not make Flash happy. In hindsight, Peter was aware that that would be the case. All the genius in the world couldn’t save him from the fact that sometimes, his mouth moved faster than his brain. There was also the anger. _That_ was doing some wacky stuff to his head right now. Or maybe that was the punch. 

Before Flash can stick his boot in Peter’s gut, there is a yell that can be heard even over the noise of the crowd.

“Flash Thompson!” Betty shoves her way through the gathered students, all elbows and spite. She’s barely 5’5” and yet somehow her expression makes her seem threatening. As does all the black she’s wearing, and the bold, deep purple lip color.

Flash pauses, face twisting into something that borders confusion. 

Betty marches right up to him and puts a finger in his face, unwavering. “You back up _right_ now. You may be a jerk but I know you don’t hit girls. _I will take advantage of that._ ”

Peter watches in shock as Flash frowns, desists, and shrugs his shoulders angrily like he’s trying to shake off the residue violence. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, “Watch your back Ghost Boy, your girlfriend won’t always be here to save your dumb ass.”

Betty holds out a hand for Peter and he takes it, dazed.

“You… you really did that.”

“What? Of course I did.” She pats his shoulder, “We’re friends, why wouldn’t I?”

“No one else would.” He’s still trying to wrap his head around it. That could have easily taken a wrong turn if Flash had a few less morals. “Why would you risk it?”

It’s Betty’s turn to be confused, “Peter, that kinda thing isn’t okay. Just because you’re scared doesn’t mean you should stand idly by… that’s what’s giving Flash all that power. If everyone decided he wasn’t worth their time or fear, he’d be nothing. And that’s how I see it.”

“He’s not worth your time?” 

She grins, one side of her mouth quirking up a little higher than the other. “He’s not worth yours either.”

Peter grunts. He agrees, mentally. It’s a little harder to forge past all the fear. For him especially. It seems like there’s so much in the world out there to fear and there’s a target on his back calling it all to him. Once, he’d thought the only things to fear were ghosts and demons. Now he knows humans can be just as bad, or worse. There was no difference, really. They were all capable of doing bad things.

“Come on, let’s get you to the nurse’s office. You’re bleeding all over the place…” Betty sighs, gripping his arm carefully, like he’s made of glass. Maybe he is. “Where’s your brother? I couldn’t find him at lunch.”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, “Maybe he’s in the library? We have a test tomorrow that he’s stressed about.”

“Ok, ok, just try not to talk too much now.” 

There’s no saving his shirt, he can already see blood stained down the front of it. That’s not great; he and his brothers only have so many to spare. Hopefully they can find a way to get the blood out. He frowns -- then winces as it pulls on tender flesh. There’s going to be no hiding this from his Aunt and Uncle. He can already feel the bruise forming. Both of them are going to want to get involved, and Peter would much prefer it if they didn’t.

He gets cleaned up and sits in the nurse’s office until his nose stops bleeding. The nurse doesn’t believe him when he says it was an accident, but she doesn’t call his Aunt and Uncle after he badgers her for five minutes straight. His nose is an angry red and swollen, the skin under his eyes purpling my the second. It hurts to breathe, but there isn’t much to be done with a broken or near-broken nose other than suffer through the healing process and take painkillers. 

Today they aren’t getting picked up. They’ll have to take the train back, picking up Kaine at middle school and Teresa at elementary. It’ll probably take them over an hour to get home, and Peter is exhausted just thinking about it. He wants to go home. Actually, no. He just wants to get out of here, far, far away where he’s able to be alone. 

He pulls Ben aside when they’re leaving the school doors, “Hey, do you think you can handle going alone?”

Ben pauses, deliberates, then sighs. He shifts on his feet and hikes his backpack higher up on his shoulders. “Yeah, I got it. Be careful, will you? And it’s your turn to make dinner tonight so don’t be gone too long. 7 at the latest.”

“Okay, mom.” Peter says without thinking.

“Shut up,” Ben laughs anyway, shoving Peter’s shoulder. “I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Peter takes the train to Brooklyn. It’s a thirty minute ride and he’s not as familiar with the area as he is with Queens, but right now that’s what he needs. Queens is too familiar, his house is too small, and everything feels different. Some part of him wants to just hop on a train and leave, but the logical part of him knows that it would never work, and he loves his family too much to hurt them like that. He doesn’t go anywhere close to the Brooklyn bridge, where across lies the remains of a tragedy and thousands of ghosts who didn’t deserve --

_Let’s not think about it._

The streets aren’t as busy as he’d thought, but there are plenty of people around his age walking freely, school having just ended all over. Appearance wise, he blends in, backpack still on his shoulders and hands tucked in his pockets. Unfortunately, the huge welt on his face attracts more attention than he’d like.

He eventually wanders his way to a little park, one that looks more manufactured than natural. He finds a free bench and sits down, sagging. The spring air is cool, pleasantly so. Leaves are starting to burst from tree branches, and resilient dandelions are scattered among the grass blades. The air feels different here.

Cleaner. 

Newer.

It’s not, he knows that. But here in Brooklyn nothing has happened to him.

_Yet._

“Thanks, me.” he mutters under his breath. Maybe his brothers are right when they call him a pessimist. But how can he not be paranoid? How can he not feel angry after all that had happened and all that was _still_ happening? The world likes to kick him while he’s down. Exactly like Flash had tried to do today.

_Except Betty had stopped him._

Peter leans back, squishing his backpack between his body and the bench. The sky is almost cloudless and he squints against the sun's glare. The sun is a star. The stars in the night sky also don’t disappear during the day, even if he can’t see them. It makes his gut churn and looks down again. 

To his surprise, there’s a man on the bench opposite of him. 

_How long have I been zoned out?_ The guy hadn’t been there before, when Peter had first sat down. Even sitting down, Peter can tell that the guy is _huge._ Broad shoulders, sharp jaw-- he looks like a body-builder. A pretty one, Peter can tell even with the baseball cap shadowing the other’s features.

_Stop it._

Bright blue eyes meet his own and Peter flinches. Hurriedly, he looks away, heat crawling up his neck. What the hell was he doing, staring at strangers? The man had to be at least ten years older, too. 

Peter’s palms feel sweaty. Suddenly the cool spring air seems stifling, like a bad summer day. Still, he can’t help but glance back over at the man, attempting to be as innocuous as possible. The guy is looking away now, sat comfortably on the bench with his hands in the pockets of a thin jacket. There’s a small grin on his face, like he’s amused. Probably at Peter’s very obvious reaction.

 _Ugh,_ he thinks to himself. _I really am lame._

The soul catches his attention a split-second later.

Abstract Chromatic. Peter hasn’t seen one like that in a while. The core color is deep navy, with splotches of lighter blue in seemingly random places. Deep red slashes cross through all of it, five in total, horizontally across his chest. It’s fascinating. 

Peter tries to memorize it as best he can, so he can take notes on it later. Oddly, he feels like he’s seen it before, yet he can’t recall when. Or maybe it’s the man himself who gives Peter a feeling of familiarity, the way a stranger who you always see at the grocery store does. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days, kid.”

It takes him far too long to realize it’s the stranger who’s spoken, bright blue eyes once against meeting his hazel ones. 

Bright blue eyes that, now that Peter allows himself to continue looking into, seem far too bright to be natural and have pupils in the shape of slits, like a cat’s. 

_Ah, of course. Of course something would happen._

What did he expect?


	11. familiar faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? Plot? It’s finally picking up, guys!!!! Thanks for all the super sweet comments!!!

“ _My suns sets to rise again._ ”

\- Robert Browning

* * *

“Uh,” is his response.  _ Brilliant _ . 

Peter remembers seeing a lot when he was a kid; people with horns and wings and weird, wacky body parts that were distinctly  _ not _ human. (And he’d had to learn what was and wasn’t considered human.)

He’s seen distinctly fewer creatures -- people? -- with… extra appendages or abnormal appearances in the past 8 or so years. Mostly because he’s stopped going out beyond traveling to school or the library.

_ Ok, ok, pretend like everything is normal. _

It’s a little too late to actually do that, but he’s gonna try his best.

“What?”

The guy smiles again, and he’s both unfairly pretty and terrifying and Peter is very conflicted.

“I said you look like you’ve seen better days. You get into a fight?”

Peter swallows, “Less of a fight, more of a beat-down.”

If he were stronger, maybe he’d actually have a chance at  _ making _ it a fight. Unfortunately, he’s a twig with no muscle definition, bird bones and asthma. If only his mouth would get the memo.

“Oh, yeah?” The cat-eyed stranger looks both sympathetic and understanding. Peter can’t imagine why, the guy looks like he could take a whole squadron of demons on his own. “I know how that feels.”

“You?” Peter raises a brow, then flushes when he realizes how obvious his disbelief is. 

The man just laughs, “I know, I don’t look it. But I used to be around the same size as you when I was your age. Maybe even smaller.”

“Hell of a growth spurt.” Peter mutters.

“Just got lucky.” The guy shrugs, but Peter can’t tell if the smile on the other man’s mouth is just that,  _ a smile _ , or hinting at something more secretive. Like maybe his luck had to do with his wacky eyes rather than something as simple as puberty.

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s not usually in the habit of talking to strangers and his ability to carry small talk is non-existent. If he had a bit more courage, he might just blurt out the question on his tongue.  _ What are you? _ Or maybe that’s too rude.  _ What can you do? _ Might be better. But he does have some semblance of common sense on occasion, and right now he can’t tell if this guy is bad news or not. That’s the problem with Chromatics, you only get colors and no hint at Purity level. At least with those who were Marked you could still see how tainted they were.

This guy could kill Peter if he wanted, and Peter wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. He knew how dangerous a smiling face could be.

“Do you usually talk to strangers?” he finally asks, for lack of anything else. That previous vein of conversation had run dry in his mind.

The man ponders this for a second, “I try not to make a habit of it. Looking from your point of view, I can see how I might be making you uncomfortable and I’m sorry for that.” His eyes are piercing. “But I’m also not in the habit of ignoring young kids who look like they’ve been beaten.”

Ok, ok, ok. Peter gets that. The whole good samaritan, bleeding heart thing is understandable. Most people like to think they’d do something when another person is in trouble, and Peter can believe that kids in danger attract hero-wannabes. Happens on TV and in movies all the time. He never expected to see it happen in real life. Not to him, at least. 

But yeah, he does get it. He does. He gets incensed over seeing those who are struggling be cheated and put down, and if someone was being bullied, he’d do something about it. He  _ has. _ No one does it for him in return, however. (Except for Betty. And Ben. Okay, and maybe Kaine.) He’s pretty sure that’s just his lot in life. He has to struggle more than others to get to the top and while it fills him with impossible amounts of rage, he’s accepted it. Accepted that this is how it’ll always be. It’s the ol’ Parker Luck.

“It was a school fight.” He clarifies, even though he doesn’t really have to speak to this guy at all. “I’m not being abused, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Didn’t say you were,” the man replies, but his shoulders lose a little bit of tension. “But you can never be sure.” Then, he offers Peter another smile, flashing teeth that look  _ just _ on the edge of too sharp. “I’m Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers.”

Peter can’t help but feel oddly touched -- and nervous that it could just be exceedingly good acting. Seriously, Oscar worthy. Also  _ incredibly  _ suspicious. Is this guy a werecat or something? Do those exist? Was there actually some truth to the whole werewolf and werecreature theory?

“Peter. Last name access pending.”

Steve laughs, not appearing to be offended in the slightest. “Smart kid, makes me wonder how someone like you would get into a fight.”

“Beat down,” Peter corrects. “And it’s not like I did anything specific aside from exist.”

“Sounds like you’re being bullied.”

“Something like that.” He shrugs, “It’s whatever.”

Steve gives Peter a look that very clearly says  _ Oh, really? _ “Doesn’t really look like whatever, Peter. Looks like a broken nose and two black eyes.”

“Does it? I thought my face felt a bit funny.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth rises a bit, but he continues to look serious. “You told anyone about it?”

“Do you count?” Peter gives a wry grin. The Parker family had long since lost the ability to afford routinely seeing a therapist, even though all three brothers probably needed one. Teresa was the only normal, mentally sound one. (To his knowledge.)

“I mean someone like your parents or a teacher. They can do something about it, you know?” 

Peter shifts uncomfortably on the bench. His glasses are pressing on the tender bridge of his nose but he can’t do much about it unless he wants to be blind, and he’d rather see and suffer. “It’s not that important.”

“It’s always important. And there’s no hiding  _ that. _ ” Steve gestures to Peter’s face. Which, ok. Rude. But true. “I bet you’re out here wasting time because you know it, too.”

Peter can’t help the snort of amusement, even though it sends shockwaves of pain through his face. “You got me all figured out, huh?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been in the same situation.”

“They’re busy, they don’t need to worry about it.” Peter decides not to correct Steve’s assumption that he  _ has _ parents. Alive ones, anyway. Aunt May and Uncle Ben are basically the same thing at this point, and Peter loves them just as much. 

“Stubborn.” Steve comments, and Peter thinks he’s imagining the fondness on the man’s face.

_ Weird. _

“Practical.” Peter counters.

“Delaying the inevitable.”

Peter pauses. Something about that sentence makes him feel… weird. He takes a second to just  _ feel _ , extending every sense possible. There’s no feeling of discomfort, evil or danger coming from the other man. If anything, Peter actually feels oddly at ease, like he’s in the presence of someone he’s known for years and they’re having a casual conversation after spending time apart.

“What do you consider inevitable?”

Steve considers this, gaze tracking to the side. “The truth.” he settles on. “It’s always exposed in the end.”

Peter puts a hand to his mouth, thoughtless and tired. He feels too much and not enough, his chest aches like it’s been stretched beyond its limits and then emptied far too quickly. He flicks his tongue across his front teeth and imagines he can taste the ghost of his own blood. He doesn’t know why the more Steve speaks, the more he feels like his soul is slipping two inches the right, leaving his flesh behind.

“What about your truth?” Peter finds himself saying, hand dropping to his lap. “Steve Rogers.” The name tastes like a memory.

The man across from him doesn’t look weirded out, just tilts his head and smiles at Peter like he’s done it a thousand times before. Maybe he has. 

“That’s a broad question, Peter. I have a lot of truths.” he sits back and crosses his arms, looking for all the world like they’re having a normal conversation. Peter can’t even find it in himself to feel awkward. He just feels exasperated, like the nonchalance is  _ familiar _ . It’s becoming increasingly disorienting. 

“Would you be honest if I asked?” 

“Of course I would be,” Steve stares into Peter’s eyes, and he finds himself wanting to believe the older man. “You know that.”

“Do I?” he asks, even though a voice in his head says  _ yes, you do. _ “See, there’s my first question. Do I know you?”

Steve hesitates.

“You said you’d tell me the truth,” Peter goads, eyes narrowing. 

“I know,” Steve concedes, “and I will. But that’s not a question that can easily be answered.”

Peter glances around, eyeing the open area and pedestrians going about their day nearby. “Is it a public issue?”

Steve exhales through his nose. “Not exactly. Private would be preferable, but I’m not eager to take you out of your comfort zone.”

Peter scoffs, “You wouldn’t do anything to me.”

He then furrows his brow, unsure of his own sincerity. There’s literally no reason for this sudden onset of trust. Peter knows he can be a little naive with his trust, choosing to see the best in people before assuming the worst unless the first impression is negative, but this is ridiculous. 

“I don’t know why I said that.”

Steve holds up his hands like he’s confronting a startled animal. “It’s alright, don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out!” Peter’s voice cracks and he can’t even find time to be embarrassed about it. “Ok, I’m freaking out a little. Is it obvious?”

“Um, not at all.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your lies.” He exhales gustily. “Ok, so. Met a man in the park. Man is oddly familiar. Man is aware of familiarity. We’re up to speed, yes?”

Steve nods, bemused. “I’d say so.”

“Can I get a little more input than that?”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Peter?” The cat-eyed man asks, as if he were asking about the weather.

“This is gonna be one of  _ those _ conversations, isn’t it.” Peter mutters under his breath. Why did his life have to be so weird? Couldn’t it be even a little normal? Just a little? Seriously, it’s all he wants. He’s struggling enough being a poor kid in a society that hates poor people. A little louder he says, “Yeah. You could say that.”

“Anything else?”

“What,” Peter frowns, “Like aliens? Werewolves? Are you a werewolf?”

“What? No. Where’d you get that idea?” Steve laughs, “Me? A werewolf? Oh, now that’s funny.”

Peter frowns. “Ok, ok, yes. Hilarious. I’m hilarious. You’re not a werewolf, fine. But you bringing up ‘anything else’ implies that there is, in fact,  _ something else _ , or that you believe there is.”

“You got all that out of two words?” Steve raises a brow, looking impressed. “Reminds me of someone I know…”

“Well?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve clears his throat. “Just…  _ werewolf _ . Wow. You’re right in your assumptions. There’s more out there than ghosts. I’m not too sure about the aliens, but I wouldn’t rule them out.”

Peter bites his lip, trying to wrap his head around how odd this whole situation is. His brain feels a bit like mush and there’s an ache building at the back of his skull. 

“You didn’t deny the existence of werewolves.”

“You’re really set on the werewolf thing, aren’t you?” 

“It’s your eyes,” Peter says, throwing caution to the wind. Outlandish as this experience is, it could be his only chance at getting some  _ real  _ answers. “I admit that I wasn’t totally sold on it, because your pupils look more like a cat’s.”

Steve just nods in acceptance, “That’s fair. And no, I didn’t deny their existence because to deny them would be a lie. And I’d have a few very insulted friends on my hand if it ever got out.”

Ok, hold on. 

That. That doesn’t...

“That doesn’t make any sense.  _ Literally. _ There’s no way werewolves can exist, it’s just not plausible.” He’d thought about for hours with his brothers and Betty. The very idea that a transformation could be ruled by something like the moon just… didn’t make realistic sense. Or biological sense.

“Just because something is beyond your understanding doesn’t mean it’s not real, Peter.” 

He presses his lips together, allowing Steve that. 

“There’s a million, billion things in this universe that we probably never  _ will _ understand, if I’m being honest.” The man continues, “Doesn’t bug me so much, but you’re the kind that always wants an answer.”

“Of course,” he says, ignoring the fact that Steve somehow even knows that about him. “Everything that exists has to for a reason.”

“That seems a little more existential than scientific.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Dude, science  _ is _ existential. We’re dissecting every aspect of existence and defining the reasons for it and boundaries of it.”

“That puts a lot of limitations on your thought process, Pete.” Steve runs a finger along the brim of his hat, “Not everything has a reason. Some things just  _ are _ .”

“Ugh,” His headache only grows worse, to the point where his entire head is pulsing with pain, not just his nose. “I’m not emotionally ready for this deep of a conversation.”

“Head hurting?”

Blue eyes stare him down, soft and knowing and far too familiar. 

“What are you?” Peter asks, quiet and tired.

“Your head hurts because a part of you remembers me.” Steves says instead, directing his gaze off to the side. “The second you stepped into Brooklyn I was aware of your presence. I sought you out on purpose, because I wanted to know if you were the same person.”

“You’re not really good at this whole explaining thing.” Forget Flash’s fist, Peter’s head feels like it’s been beaten with a sledgehammer. He squints at Steve and for whatever reason, the man’s appearance shifts. Army fatigues, short cropped blond hair with no hat in sight, a dimpled smile and dog tags pressed to his chest. 

Another throb and it’s Steve in a hat and regular jacket again.

“What the fuck.” He gasps, and Peter Parker has never dropped the F bomb in public before, but if there was ever a time to do it then now seems about right. “What was that, oh my god. My head--”

A hand presses against his hair, colder than the fresh spring air. His curls flatten against his scalp and the hand soothes like an ice pack. Peter flicks his gaze up to meet Steve’s, who’s crouched before him with an expression that has no name, with trace amounts of sorrow.

He thinks those slit-pupils would be far scarier had he not felt like Steve would die before harming him. What an odd thing to feel.

“Why’d you come looking for me?” he whispers.

“You got a phone?”

Peter scoffs, “My own? As if. Got a home phone, though.”

“Here.” From his pocket, Steve pulls out a phone. He presses it into Peter’s hands. 

“What.” Is all he can say, flabbergasted. “What is this? What. Is this a Nokia?”

“I can get another one, easy. There’s already some numbers saved in there. Keep them. They’ll be useful once you know the whole story.”

Peter sits up, just now realizing he’d curled forward in pain. Steve’s hand falls from his head, but the icy feeling doesn’t fade. Quickly, he shoves the phone back into Steve’s grasp. “No, wait. Absolutely not! I can’t afford this!”

“Pete, you don’t have to pay me back. I’m  _ giving _ it to you.” Steve shifts, and suddenly instead of being crouched in front of Peter he’s beside him on the bench. He doesn’t give off any heat. None. For a man of his size it seems… odd. (Has Peter said Odd enough times yet?)

“You… you can’t.” Peter stutters. “I mean, what? Why would you even…?”

“It’ll make sense, I promise.”

“It’ll make sense if you  _ tell me _ , Steve!”

The other man doesn’t have much of a rebuttal for that. “I didn’t actually plan on interacting with you if you didn’t…  _ remember _ . But I couldn’t help myself when I saw that bruise. I had to make sure you weren’t in a dangerous place.”

“Why.” At this point he’ll take  _ any _ answer. “Tell me why you even care, tell me why I feel like you  _ do _ care. Tell me why it feels like we’ve known each other forever, and why I’m not running in the opposite direction after hearing that you specifically stalked me upon my arrival.”

“I’m a vampire.”

Peter sits back. He looks at Steve’s very serious, very blue eyes. He turns to face forward and puts his head in his hands. This turns out to be a mistake.  _ Broken nose. _ “Shit.” he hisses, eyes watering. “Ow, ow.”

“Alright there?”

“Yeah, just contemplating my existence.” And seriously trying to figure out if Steve is pulling his leg. The man seems too honest for that and Peter still feels like he can trust him. Which is infuriating, because Peter doesn’t  _ understand why _ , and he already doesn’t understand what he feels on a normal basis so this is just icing on the already iced cake.

“Take your time.” The so-called vampire says, sounding so obnoxiously kind that Peter kind of wants to punch him.

“Ok.” Peter sighs, “Ok.”

“Ok?”

He takes the phone. “You know I won’t be able to call you if I take this.”

“Ah,” Steve makes a noise, as though the thought had not occurred to him. “Well, that… won’t actually be a problem. Here--” he gently takes the phone from Peter’s lax hands and flips it open. “This number.”

Peter glances at the screen. “Ok, what about it?”

“I’ll be getting a new phone as soon as possible and when I do, I’ll call you so you have the number. But if you need to contact me beforehand just call  _ this  _ number.” He hands the phone back to Peter, who stares down at the string of numbers before him. The name attached reads  _ Bucky. _

* * *

Peter finds out that vampires are, apparently, real. So are werewolves and a slew of other creatures. He knows a man named Steve Rogers, and somehow doesn’t know him at the same time. He goes home with a phone in his pocket that feels heavier than anything he’s ever carried before, and his rage usually feels pretty heavy.

Dinner ends up being mac and cheese from a box, and no one really complains because it’s mac and cheese. Their Aunt and Uncle are both working, and since Peter and Ben are fourteen they feel better about leaving the kids to fend for themselves. 

Ben and Kaine do the dishes, and Teresa moves settles down in front of the TV to watch a movie before bed.

“Have you done your homework?” he asks her as she passes, ruffling her hair and sending her scurrying faster to escape his reach.

“Yeah!” she throws over her shoulder, giggling.

He smiles at her indulgently, wondering if he was ever so full of energy at her age. Sometimes the gap between them feels like it spans decades rather than a few short years.

“So,” his twin says, shaking his hands of excess water. “You met someone today.”

Peter gifts his brother with a dry look, “Is this why you let me go today with a fight? Because you knew something was going to happen?”

Ben shrugs, “I knew he wouldn’t hurt you. But I don’t see the past, just the future. I don’t know who he is.”

“Who?” Kaine interrupts. “What’re you talking about?”

Peter sighs, “I met a guy at the park today. Something about him felt off, and it turns out he’s a vampire. Or at least he claims to be.”

“Some random guy said he was a vampire and you believed him?”

“No, Kaine,” he rolls his eyes, “I’m still skeptical but he’s definitely… different. His soul is Abstract Chromatic, so he’s probably got some kind of Sixth Sense and his eyes weren’t human. So maybe he  _ is _ a vampire, maybe he isn’t. Either way, he’s something, and I have a feeling I’ll be able to get information out of him that we’ve been searching for.”

His youngest brother mulls this over, expression still sour. It’s funny, Peter was the one harmed by an older man, but it’s  _ Kaine _ who is suspicious of anyone and everyone. 

“Alright, fine. I don’t like it but you’re right. If he’s willing to talk or whatever then I guess it’s more than what we’re working with right now.”

Ben claps Kaine on the shoulder, “See, it’ll all work out fine. This is our big break, I can feel it.”

“If this goes sour, then it’s on you.” Kaine grumbles in return.

“Gee, thanks.”

* * *

Peter decides to not bring the phone to school. There’s too much of a risk —Flash could easily break it. While he knows he could just hang around Brooklyn and probably find Steve, or Steve could find him, the cellphone is currently the easiest way to contact the man.

He hasn’t been able to call Steve yet. Er, Bucky, actually. Which is a bit awkward to think about. It’s that anxiety that’s stopping him. What’s he supposed to say to a man he’s never met before? At this point he’d prefer to wait for Steve to call.

Well, maybe. He can’t deny that he’s bursting with curiosity, especially now that potential answers are in his grasp. There’s so much he doesn’t know yet.

Eventually the desire for answers outweighs his anxiety, and when Friday night rolls around he holes up in his shared bedroom with the phone in his hand. There’s a bunch of numbers saved in there, all names he doesn’t recognize. There’s Bucky, of course, which is the only person Peter knows is safe to call.

...Steve would have erased the other numbers if he thought Peter didn’t need them though, right? Not that Peter wanted to call any of them. Yet. Maybe another day.

He glances over the names. Sam. Tony. Nat. Bruce. Logan. Sharon. Thor. Clint. There’s a few more but Peter ignores them for now, thumb hovering over the button that will call Bucky. It’s an odd name, one he’s never heard anyone use before. It could be a nickname, and it doesn’t really lend any clue on whether or not it’s a man or woman.

He presses the call button.

He stares at it as it rings, eyes wide. Nervously, he holds it up to his ear, heartbeat escalating the longer the ringing continues. Just as he’s about to give up, the call is answered.

“Peter.” Says a voice, distinctly male and somewhat familiar in the way Steve was, even though this certainly isn’t Steve. “Steve told me you’d call.”

“That’s me.” He replies, “Are you Bucky?”

“Sure am.”

Peter swallows, “You’re Steve’s friend, then? Are you a vampire too?”

There’s a bit of a laugh, “I am, yes. That bother you?”

“Dunno.” Peter answers honestly, feeling safer about voicing his thoughts over the phone than in person. “I’m not really sure what it means to be a vampire. Logically I can’t make sense of it.”

“You some kinda genius then?”

“Or something,” Peter shrugs, forgetting for a moment that he’s on the phone. “Can you answer my questions?”

“Depends,” Bucky says, “What kind of questions do you have?”

“A lot,” Peter admits. “Still kinda reeling from the fact that Steve knows who I am. How has no one seen your eyes? The shape of his pupils weren’t exactly natural, and neither are yours if you’re a vampire. Plus, Steve’s soul was incredibly unique—“

“Whoa, whoa, hold on!” There’s a crackle of noise as Bucky sighs. “You weren’t kidding. Listen, maybe we should set something up in person. There’s a lot to go over and I’m not the best at explaining it all.”

“Sorry,” Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s just… a lot going through my head right now. My whole world has just been turned upside-down. I took a breather in Brooklyn and ended up with a vampire. I think I’m entitled to a little freak-out.”

“Steve’s bullheaded. Probably dropped too much too soon. Or not enough.” 

Peter frowns, “Yeah, something like that.”

“A little freak-out is fine, just don’t let it get out of hand. You’ll get your answers, I promise. We won’t leave you hanging.”

The feeling Peter gets from Bucky’s words is odd. It’s a word he’s becoming intimately familiar with. It’s a soft feeling, like an old friend. A bit like deja-vu. Like Steve.

“Did I know you too?” He asks, quiet and wondering. There is no space in his memory, no gap in which memories containing the two men could exist. It makes no sense. Yet he continues to feel as though he’s known them.

Bucky is quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally says, “We knew each other. In a way.”

“In a way?”

“You’ll understand later, Pete.” Bucky promises, “Trust me. When do you think you’ll be free to meet up?

“I’ve got school during the week. Maybe after? Or during the weekend?”

“Christ,” Bucky sighs, “How old are you?”

“Fourteen, why?”

“No reason. It’s just… been a while. Wow.” Bucky sounds melancholy, “You’re young this time.”

Those words don’t make much sense. Peter frowns. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “What do you mean  _ this time _ ? Why are you and Steve so cryptic?”

Bucky laughs, his amusement clear over the phone. For a moment Peter hears it like the other man is standing right beside him. He sees dark hair and blue eyes, feels the force of a hand on his back, smacking him in greeting. 

“This Friday.” Bucky says once he’s stopped laughing. “46 Sullivan Ave. Brooklyn. There’s a little potted plant in the window. Steve and I will be there with your answers. Just don’t skip school.”

Peter thinks about the implications of going to the home of two men he doesn’t really know. “Can I bring someone?”

“Like who? They have to be trustworthy, Pete. The supernatural world is out of the common eye for a reason.”

“But you trust me?” Peter flops back on his bed—er, Ben’s, actually. 

“We’ll explain. Steve told me you were the one and I believe him.”

“It’s my brother.” Peter admits. “Twin, actually. I also have another brother that might be interested in coming. They’re both trustworthy and deserve answers just as much as I do. Too many things have happened for them not to be involved.”

“...okay.” Bucky relents. “They can come.”

“Friday.”

“Friday.” The man confirms.

* * *

Friday does not come quick. The week drags on and on, moving so slowly that Peter can't help but think that the universe is against him. He tells his Aunt and Uncle that he’s going to Betty’s house, along with Ben and Kaine. They take his word for it, both too stressed to think too deeply on it and enjoying their quiet house for the evening - Teresa aside. 

The three boys board the train and huddle close together, blending in with other students on their way home from school. Like before, it takes a half hour to reach Brooklyn. Unlike before, there’s a destination in mind. A destination that requires a map, because Peter isn’t very familiar with the streets of Brooklyn, let alone enough to find a street he’s never heard of.

He’d taken the large, foldable map Uncle Ben had stored in his nightstand drawer and tucked it away in his backpack. Now, he pulls that map out once they’ve exited the train, shaking it open. It’s huge, but at least it’s accurate enough that he can figure out where they’re going.

His brothers follow him, Ben peering at the streets with fresh eyes and Kaine frowning heavily, scowling at anyone who looked at them too closely. It’s about a fifteen minute walk from the street outside the station to the address Bucky had given him, and he manages to not get them lost once. The address leads to a townhouse with a gray brick exterior, windows with ornate iron bars, and a navy blue door. There’s a tiny potted plant in the first floor window, a single white flower growing in it.

“Is that it?” Ben asks, peering over Peter’s shoulder.

“46 Sullivan Ave.” Peter confirms, folding the map up and tucking it into his backpack.

There’s a knocker on the door in the shape of a lion’s head. Peter finds the irony darkly amusing. He walks up the steps, pretending that he’s not so incredibly nervous that he’s practically vibrating in his shoes. Forgoing the knocker, Peter raps his knuckles against the door.

It opens not a second later, as though the person was waiting just behind it. It’s a man, almost a foot taller than Peter with dark brown hair pulled back in a low-hanging ponytail and bright blue eyes. His pupils are narrow slits, just like Steve’s, though their eyes are different shades. 

“Bucky.” Peter says, knowing instinctively that it’s the man on the phone who stands before him.

“Peter.” Bucky replies, eyes skimming over the three of them. “...there’s three of you.”

“I’m the twin,” Ben says, holding out his hand. “Ben.”

Bucky shakes the offered hand, looking bemused.

Kaine eyes Bucky with heavy suspicion, brows drawn low over his eyes. The three of them certainly look identical at this point. “Kaine. Not a twin.”

“Right.” Bucky exhales. “Well. You coming in?”

“Wait.” Kaine grabs the strap of Peter’s backpack, holding him in place. “How do we know we’ll be safe? We don’t know who or what you are, only that you’re inviting three teenage boys into your home under mysterious circumstances.”

“Kaine.” Peter hisses, hackles rising as he realizes exactly what his brother is trying to say. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Kaine exclaims, incredulous. “What do you mean  _ don’t start? _ Someone has to think rationally here. If it isn’t gonna be you then it's gonna be me.”

“Hey, relax,” Ben puts his hands up, attempting to soothe the youngest Parker. “Nothing bad is gonna happen.”

“Can you promise that?”

Bucky remains silent, watching the argument play out before him with no discernible expression.

Ben purses his lips. “Yeah. I promise.”

Peter shrugs off Kaine’s grip and walks forward, stepping by Bucky and into the house. His brothers follow. Bucky closes the door behind them. 

The interior is nothing one would expect a proclaimed vampire to have. It isn’t dark, nor is it overwhelmingly populated with Gothic decor. The walls are sunny yellow, the curtains wide open to let in natural light. It’s bright enough that there’s no need for the electricity to be on, so the lamp with the beige shade in the corner besides two big bookcases is off. There’s a worn rug over dark wood floors, well-loved armchairs around a nice TV. Peter’s never seen a screen so big. The space looks lived in. Homey. It feels nice, just like their own home. 

“You sure you guys are vampires?” Kaine asks sourly, shoulders hunched.

“Last time I checked.”

Peter and his brothers startle at the new voice. Steve walks into the room from what looks like a kitchen, the white linoleum floor giving it away. His hair is immaculately gelled and styled in a way that looks distinctly military and his smile reveals teeth that look a little too sharp to be human. It catches Peter’s attention, but his two brothers don’t seem to notice it, their eyes not lingering much more after the initial glance.

“Steve,” Peter says, sounding a little more relieved than he meant to.

“Peter,” Steve greets in return, then nods at Ben and Kaine. “Nice to meet you boys as well. Heard your introductions at the door.”

“Peter said you had answers.” Kaine interjects. “Well? Are you going to give us any?”

“Slow down, kid. You’ll get your answers as promised.” Bucky crosses his arms, “Now I’m not sure what you two might be looking for, as all our answers have to do with Pete over here, but we’ll try our best to help.”

“Why don’t you sit down.” Steve gestures to the comfy looking couches bathed in sunlight. “Would any of you boys like something to eat or drink?”

“Not likely.” Kaine snorts as all three Parker boys gracelessly plop down on the couches, backpack straps still around their shoulders.

Ben, however, has no reservations about making himself at home. “I’ll have a glass of orange juice. Thank god you guys get pulp-free.”

Bucky and Steve share a glance, both looking faintly confused.

Peter elbows his twin, giving the two men a sheepish grin. “Uh, he does that.”

“Right…” Steve trails off, bemused. He goes back into the kitchen, presumably to get Ben’s requested orange juice.

Peter sighs, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly. Maybe he should have come alone. While he’s not keen on spending time alone with strange men, he gets no sense of danger from either of them. He can’t see the content of their souls, just the colors — which, now that he looks past the cat-eyes and oddly familiar feelings, he sees that they’re the same. Navy, light blue splotches and five red slashes across the chest. Completely identical.

Steve returns with the glass of orange juice, passing it to Ben before seating himself on the couch across from the boys, right next to Bucky.

Seeing them side by side sends a shock through Peter’s system. He feels his heart in his chest, feels every beat individually. With every thud it feels as if his body shifts, but not in the traditional way. His soul is pulsing out of his flesh with every beat. It makes his head ache again. He sees their forms change before his eyes, transforming their casualwear into army fatigues and alternate haircuts. Steve’s hair hasn’t changed too much, just a little longer on top, like a modern form of the military cut. Peter presses a hand to his temple, gently and without expression. The ache isn’t so bad, not like the other day when he’d first met Steve. 

Ben sips noisily on his glass of orange juice.

Peter takes it as a chance to break the awkward silence. “So…”

“Right!” Steve runs his hands down his knees. “Sorry, it’s just a bit weird.”

He looks at Peter like a distant memory. Bucky does the same, just hides it better. Peter can only tell because… well. He’s not entirely sure just yet.

“Why’s it weird?” Kaine asks, brow furrowing. He’s lost a bit of his angry tension, sitting back with his arms folded. “Aside from the obvious.”

Bucky and Steve share another glance.

“What do you know about vampires?” Bucky asks.

Peter leans forward when his youngest brother snorts and his twin looks to him. “Nothing concrete, obviously. As far as we’re concerned, vampires are fictitious.”

Steve flashes a quick smile, “I told you, there are things beyond your understanding.”

“Yeah, sure. I can believe that.” Peter says, folding his hands together. “But you realize what you’re trying to imply goes beyond the realm of human nature.”

“Well, Pete, it’s probably because we’re not human.” Bucky mutters.

Those words make Peter stop and think.  _ Not human. _ Everyone knows that vampires - and werewolves - aren’t human. Yet somehow when picturing them, most assume they look human or have human forms, or even that they used to be human. In essence, the core thought when considering a creature like that -- is  _ human. _ Vampires are turned. The initial attempt at forming some sort of logical explanation for the existence of vampires led him to the assumption that it was possible a virus that led to some form of mutation. That, of course, has to do with the fact that vampirism in media has always been a condition brought about by transference. 

Bucky’s words make Peter think that there’s something else going on entirely. That maybe Peter’s had it all wrong. Maybe vampires were never human, could never have been human. Could never  _ be  _ human. That meant that any anatomical or biological assumptions Peter has in mind are likely wrong. But to what extent? If what Steve and Bucky were saying is true, there has to be some likeness, especially since they looked entirely human aside from the eyes.

“I can see your brain movin’.”

Ben counters Bucky’s words quickly, a cheeky grin at his lips. “That’s Peter. Brain like a computer.”

“Sorry, I’m just wrapping my head around it.” Peter murmurs, “Slowly.”

“Let’s just get it all out in the open, okay? We’re wasting time being cautious.” Bucky says, ignoring Steve’s crass look. “Peter, we knew you in a past life.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

“Ok, this is bullshit.” Kaine stands up, “What the hell are you trying to pull, huh?”

“Hold it.” Ben interrupts Kaine’s impending tirade, alternating between staring into the eyes of Steve and Bucky. “Let them explain. Only good things today, bro.”

“You can’t be serious!”

Steve clears his throat, “We realize it’s hard to believe. Outlandish, really. But it’s the truth.”

Peter wipes his hands down his face, pressing his lips together tightly to hold in a hysterical laugh. The words sound so funny. Impossible. The plot of a cheesy sci-fi novel.  _ We knew you in a past life. _ He’s fourteen, he should be worried about school and girls, not vampires and past lives.

Everyone pauses when he speaks. “It’s… not entirely outlandish.” 

Steve’s lips quirk up.

“You’re not serious, Peter.” Kaine complains, giving Ben a mean look when the younger twin tugs him back down.

“We’ve been going off the assumption that souls are energy, and that energy continues to exist even after the body dies. Who’s to say that it can’t resurface. Energy recycles itself. I find it hard to believe that it would just cease to exist.” Peter worries his lip with his teeth. “That being said, memories? Those are all in the brain.”

“Is that the only place?” Steve asks, smiling like he knows something they don’t. Which he does. “From what I know about you so far, you’re brilliant. But you’re aware of the paranormal. You’ve seen ghosts. Do they look like beings with minds? Without memories?”

They didn’t. Peter doesn’t make a habit out of speaking with ghosts but he’s aware that they can speak, generally to each other or when trying to get the attention of the living. As children, him and his siblings had even played with ghost kids before they’d wisened up to it. Interacting with the dead was a no-no. Peter had learned that the hard way. 

The poltergeists seemed intelligent; as did the demon, from what he could remember of it. That hinted at some form of brain function, which was funny, as something made of energy wouldn’t have a brain. Not one as Peter knows it — made of cells and tissue. He can’t help but recall Steve’s words about how some things may never be understood. That may be true, but it doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

“Explain it, then. All of it. No interruptions.” He finally says, giving his brothers a heavy side-eye. Ben just grins while Kaine huffs loudly, clearly not happy but making no move to get up again. “No more talking around it. I want answers.”

“It’s a long story,” Bucky warns, brow drawn low. His eyes pierce Peter’s, heavy with warning and intent. “It could take a while to get it all out.”

Peter isn’t in the mood for anymore games, his patience has run out. “You have my number.”

The dark-haired man finally smiles, though it’s faint and vanishes quickly. It changes his face a lot, turns the slightly stern, brooding countenance into one that Peter would  _ not _ be hard pressed to call handsome. Which is not a thought he wants to have.

“The reason I asked you what you know about vampires is because there are distinct differences between you and us.” It’s Bucky who starts, clearing his throat noisily. “For one, our life expectancy is a lot longer than yours, and that’s mostly what I want to focus on. Everything else can be discussed later.”

“We met a man during World War II.” Steve picks up where Bucky leaves off seamlessly. “Fought together for years. He was a good man and a good soldier. We got close, became good friends. Close enough that he imparted upon us his biggest secret, then outed us.”

Bucky snorts, “We never had to tell him what we were, he’d already known the whole time.”

The headache has returned with a vengeance, a sudden sharp pain at his temple making him squint. Peter rubs at his right eye, frowning when the image of the two men on the opposite couch continues to phase between current and past. At least, he’s assuming the military fatigues are from the past. They certainly look dated, and after hearing Steve say  _ World War II,  _ well, he can believe that the clothes could be from that time period. He’s never been a history buff, never looked into much beyond supernatural related events. To say he could match army uniforms to their specific time periods off the top of his head would be a lie. Still.

It felt right.

“He saw souls.”

Peter glances up sharply, meeting Steve’s azure gaze. That’s something he hadn’t shared, not during their first meeting or over the phone with Bucky. It isn’t much to say he’s never met anyone else who’s seen souls, he’s never been out of New York. There’s billions of people in the world, why shouldn’t there be another like him?

“He told us that he’d been in a cycle of reincarnation for centuries, and that he remembered every life he’d ever had.” Steve continues, “Not every life retains memories. His third life he’d had no idea, the fourth recalled every bit of the previous three. Sometimes he only remembered bits and pieces.”

“ _ He _ was also a  _ she _ on some occasions.” Bucky chimes in, and Kaine actually snorts at that.

“You were a  _ girl _ ?” 

Peter gives his brother a dirty look. “I thought you said this was bullshit?”

“There’s nothing wrong with women,” Steve admonishes, expression somewhat stern but also resembling a kicked puppy. “I don’t see why it would be so bad if he used to be one.”

“Whatever, man.” The youngest sighs, visibly uncomfortable under Steve’s woeful gaze. Unseen by his blonde companion, Bucky gives Kaine a look of sympathetic understanding.

“You realize how crazy this sounds, right?” Peter murmurs, shaking his head. “This is just… a lot. Did I look the same? Is that how you managed to find me? No, you said I’d been a girl, that means it’s unlikely my appearance would remain consistent. Genetically improbable as well, unless the reincarnation cycle stayed within a family line.”

Ben nudges Peter’s side carefully, offering a grin and quiet support. It’s his brother’s earlier words that have him taking this situation a little more seriously than he would on his own. It’s hard to turn away the idea of reincarnation when his twin seems so nonchalant about it and his eyes keep playing tricks on him, showing him images of men he’s never laid  _ these  _ eyes on.

He’s been trying a long time to rationalize the impossible. Truth is, there’s no reason for him or his brothers to have these gifts, and certainly no actual,  _ logical _ explanation. Steve told him that some things just were, with no rhyme or reason. Peter hates that. The not knowing makes him anxious. Things have never made sense to him, not as a young child and certainly not now. He’s always felt weird, always been the odd one out; these gifts of his only emphasize the feeling. Why can’t he ever be in control? Of any aspect of his life. Any at all.

He stares at the bright yellow walls, hoping that it’ll knock some sense into his scrambled head. There’s a clock on the wall, faintly ticking and ugly as sin. It’s in the shape of a cartoon cat, the body being the clock face and the tail swinging soundlessly below with every passing second. Peter can bet that it wasn’t Bucky who bought such a thing, not of his own volition. 

It’s certainly something Steve would buy as a gag, because he was the type who had a sense of humor that snuck up on you. And the fact that Peter even knows that is still boggling his mind.

“Peter, we can stop if it feels like too much.”

He slides his wandering gaze back over to Steve and his stupidly handsome concerned face. It does feel like too much, but it’s felt like too much for a long time. If he stops now he’s not sure he’ll be able to come back to it so easily. 

“No, I’m good.” He replies, breathing deeply and squaring his shoulders. “Keep going.”

“We didn’t recognize you in the way you might initially assume,” Bucky starts, then pauses to gesture with a tilt of his head at Steve. “It’s not your face. It’s your blood. You have the exact same scent as  _ him _ , your past self. It’s how Steve knew you were in Brooklyn.”

“He  _ smelled _ me?” That doesn’t make him feel self-conscious at all.

“What’s he smell like?” Ben interrupts gleefully, “Teenage angst? B.O?”

Peter smacks his twin without much force, glaring as the others let out sounds of amusement. 

“Like caramel, actually… caramel apples and cinnamon.” Steve says, once he’s stopped smiling. “Very recognizable — to us, at least. You live in close quarters with a guy for years and it becomes something you never forget.”

“Reeked of it, actually.” Bucky snorts, “It’s the other reason Steve found you when you stepped one foot in Brooklyn. Hot caramel from miles away.”

“So that’s part of your… vampire powers?” Kaine asks, still skeptical.

“Yep.” Bucky replies. He doesn’t say anything beyond that.

“You said he remembered all his past lives,” Peter draws their attention back to the existential crisis hanging over his head. “What does that mean for me?”

Steve purses his lips and shakes his head once, “I think you know what we’re saying is true. I don’t know what you’re remembering, or if it’s just feelings, but you’re a smart enough kid to not follow strange men into their homes if you didn’t believe we wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Or he’s so curious it’s made him stupid.” Kaine mutters.

Peter swallows heavily. Neither of his brothers continue with that train of thought, both understanding how close Steve’s words were to a reality Peter didn’t want to remember.

“Will I remember?” He asks, ignoring his brother. “You. Him. The man I was before — the people I was before?”

“Who’s to say?” The blond vampire replies, looking apologetic, “That’s one question I can’t answer for you.”


	12. take hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a few questions about the wording last chapter when it was said that Peter’s previous self had ‘outed’ Steve and Bucky! No, Previous Pete didn’t ‘out’ them as LGBTQ+, and No, he didn’t call them vampires with a bunch of witnesses around. He basically said, “BTW I know you’re vampires. It’s whatever.” When the three of them were alone. Because the existence of the supernatural is kept under wraps, it is a bit like being ‘outed’ because for them, their human personas were rendered meaningless to Previous Pete. (And him alone. Because he told no one.)

_ “New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.” _

— Lao Tzu 

* * *

The questions Steve and Bucky  _ can _ answer are the ones about what they are and what Peter can do. About three questions in Peter ends up pulling out his notebook to document it all, glad they’d all brought their backpacks. A lot of what the two men say seems impossible, but until proven otherwise all Peter can do is take their words for it and trust in his gut. And his gut is telling him to trust them. 

In none of Peter’s past lives has he run into anyone else who can see souls the way he does. He’s also never been able to see his own soul, or figure out why he has this gift. Neither vampire gave names, though they offered to. Peter would rather try and remember those on his own. For now. Eventually his curiosity might get the best of him if no memories come back anytime soon. 

The soul theory he’d had going turns out to be true, for the most part. Peter’s not sure if some memories from a past life helped him recall it all without him knowing, but the two men tell him that he’d categorized the souls exactly the same way  _ before. _ As it turns out, Bucky and Steve’s matching Abstract Chromatic souls meant that they were vampires. Literally. That’s it. Humans were apparently the only ones who could have their purity levels measured visibly, as long as they were Grays, or just Marked. That in turn begs the question of  _ why _ . It could be that Peter’s gift was more focused on those of his own species. Humans. 

But there was no way to know for sure and in all his past lives he’d apparently never figured it out. He could possibly never figure it out. 

At least Steve and Bucky could provide him with a wealth of information. They’ve apparently been around long enough to pick up a lot about other creatures, even the ones that don’t really run in the same circles as vampires. Of course, since he could get it right from the source, Peter first asks them about their own species.

Vampires are born, not made. They can be considered an alternate species of human, in the way that a German Shepherd and a Pomeranian are both considered dogs. It’s impossible for a human to be turned into a vampire, but it is, apparently, possible for a human and vampire to procreate. Again, using a dog metaphor, it’s a lot like how you get whole new breeds when you mix two different dog species together. Peter wants to know more about the genetics of such events, but decides to hold off those questions for another day. 

They all have those funky eyes, super senses and athletic abilities at least twice that of an incredibly fit human. They are not immortal, but live centuries to millennia, and can die a lot easier than Peter initially expected. A bad car crash, getting shot too many times at once -- or just getting shot in the right place. Turns out getting shot in the head will kill anyone, even a vampire. And yes, they drink blood. It’s their primary source of nutrition, though they can consume the same food that humans delight in. Bucky and Steve apparently both enjoy the taste of various foods, despite saying it’s all about as nutritional as air. 

The conversation then turns to different questions, like  _ how long can you hold your breath? _

(8 minutes.)

_ How much blood do you need to drink? _

(At least 2 gallons a week or they’ll become ‘dehydrated’.)

“Ok, but where do you get the blood from?” Kaine asks, far more comfortable now, two hours into the conversation. The sun is starting to get low in the sky, they won’t be able to spend much more time here without worrying their Aunt and Uncle.

“Kid, vampires have been around just as long as humans. We have systems set up now to prevent any incidents like way back in the day.” Bucky explains, “Internationally, wherever there’s a blood drive, there's a vampire sect dedicated to collecting and distributing blood to banks.”

“You have blood banks?” Peter asks, “Wouldn’t we have noticed that?”

“Not exactly,” Steve laughs, “Generally it’s within a store that serves as a front for the average human. For example, there’s a place in Manhattan that looks like a regular ol’ mom and pop store, but it’s been run by a cult of vampires for the past century. We recognize our own, so it’s easy to get let into the back, where the  _ alternate _ shopping is done.”

A whole secret society  _ within  _ society. That’s incredibly… fascinating.

“Alright, that’s enough of that. Your parents will probably get worried soon if you don’t head home soon.” Bucky stands with a grunt, his gaze flickering to the darkening world outside.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence as both of Peter’s brothers look at him. It catches the two men’s attention.

“What?” Steve asks, “Is something wrong?”

Peter clears his throat. “No. It’s, uh… just that… our parents are dead. We live with our Aunt and Uncle.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The blond replies softly, looking at all three of them as he offers his condolences.

Kaine shrugs and stands, “It was almost a decade ago, don’t think you’re stepping on any toes.” 

While the pain is certainly a lot fainter, enough that Peter doesn’t think about his parents and cry anymore, that doesn’t stop the nightmares. The night his parents died will never  _ not _ be traumatic, and the lingering effects will haunt him for the rest of his days. 

“It was a long time ago,” he confirms, getting to his feet as he and his brothers make preparations to leave. “When’s the next time we can meet?”

There is still a lot he wants to learn, a lot he’d never once thought possible. 

Bucky flashes him a smile, holding the door open for the Parker brothers. “You have my number.”

“Speaking of numbers,” Steve catches Peter’s attention before he makes his way out the door. “I got a new phone. I’ll call you soon to set up another meeting, that way you’ll have the number.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” the man replies, and the two vampires hover in the doorway as the three boys make their way down the street.

It’s a lot to take in. Enough to make his head spin. His head almost throbs with it all — oh. It is. It’s not as bad as the sharp, knife like pain from before, when his eyes had shown him images of WWII Steve and Bucky. It’s a soreness that feels like an overused muscle, which he doesn’t really feel a lot, being the least athletic person he knows. 

“So?” Kaine asks, when they’re standing before the tracks. “What’s the verdict here?”

“If you’re asking whether or not I believe them, the answer is… I do.” It’s almost hard to admit out loud, where anyone can hear. Not that anyone would care, as far as he can tell they’re surrounded by Grays. “It’s just a gut feeling. No… maybe a little more than that. For one, I never told them I could see souls. I’ve also seen  _ them _ .”

“Seen them?” Kaine prods. “You said you’d never met them before the park.”

The train rolls up on the track noisily, stopping all conversation until they’re settled in. It’s unfortunately busy, the tail end of rush hour filling the cabs with too many bodies. They’re lucky enough to squeeze in near the doors, the three of them huddled together, watching each other’s backs. It’s unlikely that any pick pockets will target them, they don’t look like they come from money and at their ages they wouldn’t have anything on them worth considering. Still, it’s a good habit to instil. The street they live on isn’t particularly awful, but it’s certainly not the nicest place. They’d had a break-in down the street last week and Peter hears gunshots at least once a month.

“I didn’t, er, I haven’t? Not in… this life.” He winces at how weird it sounds coming out of his mouth. “I get flashes when I look at them sometimes. Of like… them in military uniforms. Different hair. I don’t know, it’s just weird. This whole thing is weird.”

Kaine purses his lips, glancing at Ben. They’ve been keeping their voices low, leaning in on each other to hear over the rattle of the train. “You’ve been oddly quiet, what’s going through your dumb head? You believe this too?”

Ben laughs a little at his brother’s jab, “Yeah, yeah. I do, actually. I saw bits and pieces of today over the past week, ever since Peter made his phone call. We always said we couldn’t deny the existence of other… creatures? Is that insensitive? Beings, maybe? Well, now I believe we have proof, ya know? I just think it’s funny…”

“What?” Peter asks.

Ben shrugs, “Well, I see the future. You see the past. It’s just kinda funny to me, especially since we’re twins.”

He never really thought of it like that.

“You think it’s related?”

“No.” Ben shakes his head. “I mean, I doubt it. But I can’t say for sure. It’s not like we’ll get any answers just speculating, either.”

“It’s a good theory though,” he replies, “We don’t know how the whole soul-reincarnation thing could have affected you, or Kaine and Teresa.”

“I guess,” Ben shrugs, “But it seems weird to assume that your soul would have made mom’s womb only make super-babies.”

Kaine makes a sound of disgust,”Ugh, next topic of conversation, please.”

“Moving past all that, all we can do right now is believe them.” Peter says firmly, “Because I think they’re telling the truth.”

Ben nods in easy agreement, already on board. Kaine meets Peter’s eyes, dark gaze searching. Peter can’t tell what his youngest brother is thinking, only knows that there is something warring in that big head of his. He expects a rebuttal, or some claim that he’s gone crazy, but Kaine just looks away after a long second, nodding his own acceptance. 

They stay quiet the rest of the way, their silence contemplative amidst the bustle of other passengers and the intermittent screeching of metal on metal. By the time they reach their stop it’s completely dark, the moon high in the sky and street lights illuminating the way home. It’s not exceptionally late, Peter’s phone tells them it’s just about 8. His Aunt will have left for her shift at the hospital by now, which only leaves one guardian to lie to. As far as Uncle Ben and Aunt May knew, the Parker brothers had been at Betty’s to watch a movie.

The porch light is on when they finally get back to the house. Their Uncle is sitting in the living room with the lamp lit, half asleep in his armchair with the TV on. He startles a bit when they come in. 

“Boys,” he greets, smiling with relief. “Glad to see you all back in one piece. How was the movie?”

“Good,” Peter lies. “Very...magical. Not as good as the book, of course.”

“They rarely ever are.” Their Uncle pulls himself up from his chair, knees cracking. “Well, I’m going to bed now. Don’t stay up too late, and make sure your sister’s asleep before you head up.”

“Goodnight!” The three boys chorus, and their Uncle echoes it before making his way upstairs quietly.

When he’s finally disappeared into the second floor, they all let out silent sighs of relief.

“Wonder what’s for dinner.” Ben muses, slipping his backpack and jacket off. He hangs them up on the rack by the door, then toes off his shoes. Those are placed with much less grace, kicked off to the side.

Peter and Kaine follow his example before all three of them end up in the kitchen. Before he leaves his bag, Peter makes sure to grab the notebook he’d practically filled up at Steve and Bucky’s house. It’s one he bought himself, using what little money he’d saved up doing chores. It’s plain blue and twice as thick as the ones he uses at school. Peter’s lucky enough that he doesn’t need to take many notes concerning school subjects, his memory is excellent and he finds studying via reading textbooks better than rereading his own notes. Many pages have fallen victim to school-time daydreaming, especially since he’s long since left the current curriculum in the dust.

“At least it’s not meatloaf…” he hears Kaine say.

Peter joins them in the kitchen, peering over his youngest brother’s shoulder. It’s getting harder and harder to do that without standing on his tip-toes. Soon Kaine will pass Peter and Ben’s height entirely. He only hopes Teresa is not the same. Dinner is chicken casserole, and it only tastes  _ slightly _ off, which is a great improvement to Aunt May’s usual forays into cooking.

“I swear it tastes like beef..” Kaine whispers in sheer confusion, looking down at his plate.

Ben snorts out a laugh around a mouthful of it. 

“At least it’s edible,” Peter jokes weakly.

“Speaking of edible, I can’t believe we really walked into the home of two vampires who probably think the same about us.” Ben exclaims after he’s swallowed. “ _ Willingly _ .”

“Walking headfirst into danger seems to be our thing.” Kaine replies, not sounding all too happy about it.

“They won’t hurt us.” Peter says for what feels like the thousandth time. “Besides, why risk attacking us when it sounds like they can get a steady supply of blood?”

“Think about it, they probably have to pay for it. Even vampires can’t escape capitalism.” Kaine argues, but it’s half-hearted, like he’s tired of arguing but stubbornly clinging to his paranoia. “We’re free food.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Relax, did you see their house? You think they’d really kill us like that? Their walls were sunshine yellow and they had a plant with a knitted scarf around the pot.”

“Trust me, they won’t hurt us.” Peter says firmly, signalling his desire to end this conversation already.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, forks scraping haphazardly against plates. 

“Do you think we should tell Betty?” Ben finally asks.

They’d used the excuse that they were at her house watching the Harry Potter movie, deciding not to include her in this initial information gathering escapade. Now he’s not so sure they should include her at all. What would happen if they did? Would she be put in danger? Dragging her into this world they’ve stumbled into will definitely put her in the presence of non-human creatures with very non-human abilities. Some of them probably won’t be as nice as Steve and Bucky.

“Maybe not yet…” Peter says tentatively, “We should learn how to better protect ourselves first. Dragging her into something like this could be too dangerous.”

“Yeah, it could be.” Kaine mutters, setting his fork onto his empty plate. “But apparently it’s fine if we jump on in, huh?”

“You don’t want to?” Peter fires back.

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to get left behind.” Ben points out, causing Kaine to scowl and get up from his seat at the table. He takes his plate to the sink, turning the faucet on and washing it with excessive aggression.

“I know.” Kaine finally grunts, “I just feel like you guys can be real idiots sometimes. I don’t have your abilities and I can’t tell a ghost from a stiff breeze, but usually one of you is careful and pulls the other back.”

Peter and Ben exchange glances, both finished with their own meals but making no move to join the youngest at the sink, allowing the time to get out all his thoughts. It’s not often that Kaine engages in long speeches.

“But this time you both went in, gung-ho and not thinking of the million ways it could have gone wrong.” He continues, finally ceasing his rapid scrubbing. “Ben, I know you rely on your powers a lot and they haven’t steered you wrong, but you can’t always expect it to work out how you see it. Anything could change, you’ve said it yourself.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you guys about today.” Ben replies softly, taking the time to finally get up and drag his own dirty dishes to the sink. “I knew if I just proceeded as normal then nothing would change and everything would turn out fine. You’re right, though. There’s a lot of danger out there that I might not see coming.”

“That’s what we have you for,” Peter teases, grudgingly. “You’re the brawn.”

Kaine snorts, “Then please start taking your job as brain a little more seriously.”

* * *

On sunday they go to Betty’s house for real. They claim it’s for another Paranormal Investigators Club meeting, and it partially is, but they spend most of the time actually watching the Harry Potter movie. This way, it feels a little less like a lie. At least Peter was right, it’s not as good as the book. It  _ is _ incredible though. The movie effects are pretty impressive and he finds himself once again enthralled with the thought of magic. In the fictional sense, of course. He can accept the whole vampires, werewolves and monsters thing, but he draws the line at magic. 

It feels weird not telling Betty. A part of him wants to, because she’s his friend and there’s no reason not to, but he can’t bring himself to go through with it. While the supernatural world is wild and fascinating and exciting -- it’s also dangerous and filled with the unknown. It’s fine if she believes in ghosts. They can be threatening, sure, but at least Peter knows how to defend against them. If he tells her about the other creatures that wander the world, nothing would stop her from investigating them. Steve and Bucky had told them that the existence of vampires and others was a  _ secret. _ Like, get murdered in the dead of night by a hired hitman if you spill kind of  _ secret.  _ Betty would no doubt poke her nose into places she wasn’t supposed to. She was already dedicated to proving the existence of ghosts to the world, she’d probably want to do the same for everything else. And that would get her killed faster than she could blink.

It’s for that reason Peter holds himself back. Ben and Kaine follow his lead, and luckily the conversation between the four of them doesn’t turn awkward. He tries not to look at it as  _ lying _ , just omitting.

(Whatever helps him sleep at night.)

“Definitely not as good as the book.” Betty sighs. Her room smells like artificial bubblegum. Sometimes Peter thinks about telling her-- something. That she’s pretty, black lipstick and all. There’s other kids at school that dress like her, but Betty likes to go the extra mile, expressing herself without restraint. He  _ is _ a little jealous of that. It must be nice to pick your own clothes, to wear what you want without really thinking of the price. It’s not something he can fault her for, even if he finds himself a bit annoyed at times. She doesn’t mean to flaunt her wealth but the differences between them get really obvious at times.

“Think they’ll make a second one?” Ben wonders, leaning back on his hands.

“Capitalism.” Kaine grunts from his spot on the floor, where he’s laid out flat on his back, GameBoy held precariously above his face.

Peter snorts, “They won’t pass up a chance to make more money off of it. The story is too good.”

Betty shrugs, “I’m still gonna see them all.”

“Me too,” he says, flushing a bit when she turns her smile to him.

“We’ll have to see them together then, at the movie theater.”

He’s not so sure that’ll be possible. Three movie tickets? Unless she’s implying that only she and Peter go, but he doubts that.

“Attack of the Clones comes out first,” Kaine comments. “May.”

“Oh, right,” she muses, “We should rewatch Phantom Menace before we see it, then.”

Ben nods, “Yeah, what’s it been? Three years?”

“Just about.” Peter confirms. He likes Star Wars well enough, but he’s actually more interested in Lord of the Rings. “Next meeting I wanna watch Fellowship of the Ring before we get ahead of ourselves.”

“Oooh, you’ll love it!” Betty gushes, “I saw it in theaters, I’m amazed you guys didn’t!”

The brothers share very brief glances.

“Just didn’t have the time,” Peter replies. “Next time we can go together.”

Betty smiles widely, “Next time for sure!”

* * *

_ SPRING, 2002 _

“Try not to be creepy for one fuckin’ second.” Flash mutters, shoulder brushing Peter’s none too gently. He gives Peter a look that’s indecipherable, blue eyes narrowed and jaw set. Peter is aware, on some level, that he will likely never understand what goes on in the other teen’s head. Those waters are too tumultuous, requiring years of knowledge Peter does not yet have, and a patience he’s unsure he’ll ever gain. Flash hops the fence, following the rest of the whispering, giggling group of kids without a care in the world. Peter hesitates, before remembering the odd look he’d just recieved. If he leaves now, there will be little peace for him in the halls of school. Not that he had much to begin with. ( And yet, as bruised and graying that Flash’s soul is, there are sparks of white that Peter cannot ignore, no matter how much he personally detests the teen. ) It’s stupid and illogical, but Peter, for whatever incomprehensible reason, thinks Flash would much sooner punch a monster for Peter than leave him to face one on his own, mutual dislike be damned. 

A wry grin pulls at his lips. Peter grips the cold, flaking metal fence and heaves himself over it. He grunts as his feet hit the unforgiving asphalt, and curses whatever God decided to create hot-headed hero types. Every step along the paved path between rows of gravestones puts more weight in his chest. Every breath trembles despite his ironclad desire to remain still and  _ ignorant. _ He finds himself trailing some feet behind the group of hushed teens, claustrophobic despite the open air. Around them, spirits press in, howling and groaning. The group remains blind to the throng of raucous souls, cold fingers and limbs clawing at the air and grappling for the heat of flesh they no longer possess. The dead will forever outnumber the living, crowding and rotting in every available space known to man. Peter moves like he does not see them, hazel gaze pressed firmly to Flash’s back, tracing the numbers on the gaudy sports jacket over and over. He pretends he can’t see  _ Them _ . Doesn’t flinch when they tear fingers through his body, feebly and without ever truly touching. Unassuming and unaware, the group of teens laugh and shush each other, sneaking through the graveyard like they own the place. Peter doesn’t join in, can’t even bring himself to open his mouth.

He recalls a story he’d once heard, about holding your breath when you pass by cemeteries. You held a hand clasped over your mouth, felt the burn in your lungs and your eyes water - just long enough to pass. Just long enough to prevent a spirit from invading your lungs. It’s a silly thing, really. Peter is adverse to believing you can simply inhale a ghost ( there’s no way that’s how possessions work, no way ) but still doesn’t open his mouth, even as Flash glances back with sharp, icy eyes. 

“Looking pale, Parker.” The blond goads, and Peter looks into his eyes and pretends that there aren’t haphazard limbs phasing in and out of the other’s body. “Scared?”

Still, he remains silent, but offers a droll look. There’s fear, certainly. He doesn’t know what kind of person he’d be if he didn’t shy away from the sight of hundreds of corpses wandering, unseen, hungry. He dreads the day the sight of a mangled soul no longer causes him dismay; knows that despite his dread, the day will come where he’ll look upon it as if it were any other soul, whole and uniform. But it is not  _ fear  _ so much as  _ discomfort  _ that haunts him. The pressing force of so much spiritual energy makes it hard to breathe, especially at night - and so close to the full moon. He hadn’t wanted to come at all, already knowing what he’d see and not actively seeking to ever experience it again.

But he was the weird kid. The softer-spoken Parker, despite his biting attitude and penchant for not shutting up when he really should. He was easier to approach and easier to convince when it was just him against the manipulations of a group. They wanted to go ghost hunting, so why not take along the creepy ghost kid?

“Don’t be mean, Flash.” Liz Allan shoots the quarterback a shaming look, which is amusing in itself, as she’s not exactly been perfectly nice in the time Peter’s known of her. She still reins in Flash when he starts to get too... _ much _ , which Peter is grateful for. Liz looks freaked out herself, pretty eyes glancing around with subtle paranoia. Flash takes the opportunity to throw a protective arm around her shoulders. If only she knew the half of it -- that they were all quite literally surrounded. Swimming in a sea of sharks.

Flash grunts, eyes like knives across Peter’s skin. He returns the glare full force, feeling a sense of victory when the blond finally turns away. Flash addresses the group with a smile too smug and wide to be true, goading them further to the crypt in the center of the cemetery. Well versed in the act of faking it, Peter continues to wonder how no one else sees that more than half the smiles on the jock’s face are falsified, shadowy things.

The crypt is an aged, ugly thing. It’s pretty well kept despite that, presumably by whoever owns the graveyard. Tenacious moss grows from damp corners, the old stone stained with long-term water and sun exposure. The grass around it is recently cut, a few stray blades adhered around the base of the tomb. Unassuming, if he had to describe it. It wasn’t cracked, broken or overrun with cobwebs, there were no sinister dark windows - just rusted bars upon the entrance, allowing for a grip with which to pull the heavy stone door open. It was a family tomb, the name  _ McDonald _ carved artistically above the door, edges softened by erosion.

“It’s not so scary…” Liz observes, her relief obvious. It’s true, he supposes, from their point of view the only creepy thing about the tomb is the fact that it’s a  _ tomb _ and after midnight. The dark always warrants some level of paranoia in the majority of humanity. Being unable to see — well, it makes a person feel vulnerable.

“Is there a way in?” Flash asks, slipping his arm off of Liz’s shoulders to tug at the barred door.

“You’re not really thinking of breaking in, are you?” Liz wraps her arms around herself, looking a little more worried about committing a possible crime. “We could get in serious trouble, Flash.”

“It’ll be fine,” he waves away her concerns. “It’s not like we’re gonna wreck the place...we’re just gonna take a look.” Flash tosses a smirk back over his shoulder, “See if there are any  _ ghosts _ around.”

Breaking in, as it turns out, isn’t possible. The door is heavily secured and refuses to budge, and the longer Flash and some other kid — Peter thinks his name is Dan or something — continue to tug and grunt at it, the more ridiculous it all seems. 

“Why lock a grave anyway, huh?” Flash scowls, cheeks red with exertion and embarrassment. Bet he doesn’t feel so cool right now, pulling uselessly at an old door in the middle of the night while the girl he likes watches.

“It’s pretty obvious, actually.” Vow of silence broken, Peter gives Flash a droll look. “To stop idiots who have the audacity to attempt breaking into a final resting place.” 

“Listen here--” Flash begins.

“No,” Liz interrupts, placing a hand on Flash’s bicep. “Maybe he’s right, we really shouldn’t be trying to break in...let’s just look around for something else, okay?”

For a moment, Flash looks like he’s going to keep arguing, face pinched and hackles raised; but he sighs and looks away, swayed by a pretty girl. Peter tries not to let his smile show. It’s only partially successful. 

“Alright, fine. This one’s a bust.” Flash puts an arm around Liz, “There’s gotta be another tomb or something around here. Why don’t we split up and find the creepiest one - then hold a little  _ seance _ .” He smirks, tone lowering to make the action seem even more taboo than it already is.

Flash’s friends laugh and elbow each other, but Peter can only scowl. “Hey man, I’m not doing that.”

“What? Are you scared?” Flash goads, then follows with a few mocking chicken sounds. Liz rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything, and their friends mimic the clucking.

Peter frowns, feeling frustrated. He feels heat rise to his cheeks. “No,” he says, voice tight. “I’m just not an idiot. Playing with that kind of stuff is stupid. Even if you don’t believe in it, why risk it?”

“All I’m hearing is that you’re a coward, Puny Parker.” The jock shakes his head like he’s disappointed, “Get lost if you’re so bothered.”

“ _ You’re _ the one who wanted me here,  _ Flash. _ ” If it was Peter’s decision, he’d be tucked away in bed right now, reading the new book on Pagan Rituals he recently checked out of the library. “I didn’t want to be here to begin with!”

“Well I thought you’d be a bit more fun than this, Parker. But you’re just as boring as usual. All you ever do is keep your nose stuck in a book.” Flash’s eyes glint in the moonlight, narrow with growing cruelty. “ _ This _ is why you don’t have any friends aside from little miss Wednesday Adams.”

Peter grits his teeth. He doesn’t have to be here. _He doesn’t._ Any bullying he may receive tomorrow suddenly doesn’t matter so much, it’d certainly be less painful than sticking around here. A _seance?_ _Really?_ Just when Peter thought Flash couldn’t get anymore hard-headed and idiotic. “Yeah, well, neither do you. You just have mindless followers who only befriend you so they don’t get picked on.”

Liz gasps, “Peter!”

The other teens look vaguely uncomfortable, and Flash looks like he’s close to popping a blood vessel.  _ Good _ , Peter thinks with vindictive fervour. It’s not like he’s saying anything untrue, half the people who Flash calls his friends just suck up to him so they stay in his good graces and out of his line of sight. He’s not sure what Liz’s deal is, but maybe Flash is different around girls. Still, he doesn’t know what she sees in a guy that’s so mean to others. It can’t be just because Flash is goodlooking, otherwise she’s a lot more vapid than Peter anticipated. 

“Let’s just go look for some scary places, okay?” Liz coos, tugging on Flash’s arm. “Come on, don’t listen. It’s not worth it.”

_ Ouch. _ Not that Peter expected her to say anything in support of him. “You guys can go mess around all you want, but I’m out of here.”

“Then leave already, loser.” It’s that Dan kid, squaring his shoulders and trying to act tough. The two boys beside him let spit out a few  _ Yeah _ ’s in agreement. Like Peter hadn’t just called out all their bullshit. “I think it’s pretty obvious no one wants you here.”

“Except you did,” Peter says, dry as a desert. “Otherwise, as I said, I wouldn’t be here. It’s just that now you’re mad because I won’t summon some ghost out of satan’s asshole for you like you wanted. Really shows what kind of person you are, doesn’t it?”

“Whatever, Parker.” Flash spits, stalking off with Liz on his arm, pissed off but obviously more attentive to the fact that she’s got his arm trapped against her breasts. “You better watch your fuckin’ back tomorrow.”

“Like I don’t already?” he mutters, too low for the others to hear as they trudge off to search for a spot to conduct their spooky telephone call. Shrugging his shoulders and affixing his coat a little tighter around his body, Peter turns on his heel and makes his way back through the numerous intangible bodies of the dead. There really are a lot of them tonight, it’s almost difficult to see through them all. He walks carefully, acting like he’s normal, like he can’t see every moaning, groaning apparition.

The night is cold and the moon is near-full, all factors that could explain the odd amount of spirits floating around. He’s also never been to this graveyard before, nor has he ever really passed by it. It could be that it’s always like this. Maybe all church-aligned burial grounds were filled with the wandering dead. If so, Peter’s glad his parents are buried in a cemetery. 

(Seeing them as ghosts would be too painful, he’d never be able to visit their graves. Sometimes, however, he does wonder why they never became spirits; wonders how they could just continue on without looking back. It feels like there’s so much he still doesn’t know.)

It’s halfway to the entrance when he feels something brush his shoulder. It startles him enough that he missteps. None of the spirits around him are strong enough to become tangible and while he can see them 100% of the time, that doesn’t mean he’s the outlier to that fact. Ghosts can’t touch people. Sometimes they can generate energy to move smaller objects or make cold spots, or even let their words be heard or show a glimpse of their form. Touching a person who’s still alive? Impossible. Ghosts grow stronger the longer they stay topside, eventually turning into poltergeists. That opens up a whole new avenue of abilities, including being able to touch a living, breathing human and do things like throw them down the stairs. The difference between the two is that a Poltergeist is  _ evil _ . 

It didn’t matter if the spirit wasn’t a bad person during their life. The souls of the dead were not meant to walk this plane of existence without a physical form for an extended period of time. They’d warp and mutate into something else entirely, becoming so twisted that rational thought was all but impossible.  _ Poltergeists  _ were spirits reduced to the most basic of violent instincts, lashing out due to the pain of their soul being torn asunder, unable to pass on with their own power once they crossed that line. Steve and Bucky had confirmed it for him on a recent call, the two helping him create his own encyclopedia of the supernatural.

A ghost could not have bumped him or touched him in any manner. Peter slows to a stop and discreetly looks around. He’d been so focused on  _ not _ focusing on the spirits around him that he hadn’t even gotten a glimpse at the one who was a little bit  _ more. _ Actually, now that he thought about it, a Poltergeist shouldn’t even have been able to get within twenty feet of him to begin with. Not with the new warding bracelet--

He glances down at his wrist. It’s bare. Alarm bells ring in the back of his head. How had he not noticed? How had he forgotten? It was still on his nightstand from when he’d taken it off this morning, intending to fix it before school since the string snapped the night before. Except  _ that _ had never happened. He’d somehow made it through the whole day without incident, too. (Not that he ever had many problems at school anyway, it was way too populated for Poltergeists.)

A lot more wary, Peter clenches his fists and takes another glance around. All he can see is an ocean of desaturated, semi-transparent spirits with varying grayscale auras. There’s a few splashes of color here and there, yet not a single soul is dark or twisted enough to be the Poltergeist. 

It had ignored him. 

_ No, that’s not right. _ Poltergeists can touch at will. It bumped into him on purpose, then disappeared into the crowd of spirits while Peter had been processing. That sent a whole new wave of shivers down his spine. It was trying to lure him somewhere, likely deeper into the graveyard.  _ As if, _ Peter scoffs,  _ I’m getting out of here. _

He starts walking again, scowling once more. He’s not some naive horror movie character, he’s not going to stick around after hearing suspicious bumps in the night — or in this case, after getting physically bumped.  _ No thanks, not looking to die tonight! _

Perhaps against his will, Peter hesitates again as he gets closer to the exit. When he glances over his shoulder, through the sea of the dead, it’s far too dark to make out any of his classmates. They’re complete morons, sure. Assholes, the lot of them. And yet… they were, supposedly, going to conduct a seance while a Poltergeist was around. A Poltergeist they didn’t believe existed, but would most certainly take advantage of that fact to cause as much mayhem as possible. 

It wouldn’t kill them.

Probably.

They’d deserve it, anyway. Messing around with spirits — who did they think they were? Peter had warned them, it was their fault if they didn’t listen and had to face the consequences. 

_ You should always do something to help if you can.  _ A voice that sounds suspiciously like Uncle Ben’s echoes in his head. 

_ Ugh _ , what a time to grow a conscience. Peter frowns heavily at nothing and crosses his arms. He’s come to a full stop about thirty feet from the exit. He taps his foot. 

_ Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. _

“Oh, fine.” He exclaims, tossing his hands up and turning around. With a thunderous expression painted across his face, he walks back the way he came. Like they can sense the raging energy around him, the spirits seem to part out of his way instinctively. He loses count of how many rows of headstones he passes, arms swinging. It’s incredibly dark, but at least the sky is mostly cloudless and the moon is bright enough to illuminate most shapes. He still trips over a root when he cuts by one of the few massive trees allowed to grow within the graveyard.

“Parker? What the hell?” 

Peter whips around, startled to hear a voice come out of the dark. It’s Flash, a few stones away and moving closer. “Oh. Hey. I guess.”

The jock glances around, uncharacteristically nervous. “What are you even still doing here, man?”

“Uh….”

“Never mind that,” Flash interrupts, “Have you seen Liz?”

Peter’s brow furrows. “What? No. How’d you lose her? I was gone for ten minutes and you guys were attached at the hip.”

The taller teen shrugs, looking shifty. “None of your business.”

“...No, I haven’t seen her. But with that behavior I’m not sure I’d help you even if I did.”

Flash looks alarmed for a few seconds before his expression shifts into something hard. “I didn’t hurt her or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Well what am I supposed to think, dude?” Peter says, exasperated. “You’re not exactly the poster boy for non-violence, and you’re acting weird.”

“Watch your mouth, loser.” Flash says, but it’s almost like a reflex. “Whatever — I need to find Liz. Are you gonna help me or not?”

Peter crosses his arms. “Tell me what happened and I’ll think about it.”

Flash takes a deep breath, looking as if he’d prefer nothing more than to punch Peter in his smart mouth. “I dunno. Something spooked everyone, next thing I know they’re all bolting in different directions, Liz included.”

_ Ah, probably the Poltergeist.  _ He’s a little impressed it managed to scatter them so quickly. He’s less impressed about the fact that now he’ll have to walk around the graveyard searching for a bunch of idiots. The place isn’t even that big, maybe three square miles, but it is bordered by woods and there are trees plotted all around the uneven, hilly ground. The more he thinks about it the more he wonders what the hell the church had been thinking, choosing a place like this.

“Yeah, I’ll help. Do you think anyone ran into the trees?” It didn’t seem like a smart decision, but who knew what panic could make you do. Being alone in a forest at night was somehow infinitely more terrifying than it had any right to be. At least it eventually thinned into a residential area, if you kept running straight. 

Flash shrugs. “Maybe? It seems really quiet, so…it’s possible. You’d think we’d hear yelling if anyone was close by.”

This is probably the least antagonistic they’ve ever been with each other, and without anger clouding his thoughts Peter is forced to accept the fact that, for a jock, Flash is actually pretty intelligent. (For the most part.)

“Yeah.” Peter says for lack of anything else, “Well. I guess we should just pick a direction. They couldn’t have gotten far, if they didn’t just ditch entirely.”

“Then follow me.” Flash pushes his way forward, intentionally brushing Peter’s shoulder. He starts moving down a row of gravestones, blind to the spirits fluttering around.

Sighing and half-contemplating just turning right around and leaving, Peter follows. He makes sure to keep Flash in his sights, walking just a few steps behind. It seems darker than it was just a minute before, and a glance up shows that clouds have edged their way around the moon, blocking most of the light. Peter frowns, glancing around nervously. He’s starting to feel even more unsettled, and the fact that they’d all been stupid enough to not bring any flashlights is really not helping.

“Liz!” Flash calls, cupping his hands to his mouth. He turns his head and squints through the dark. Peter admires the fact that he hasn’t tripped over a gravestone yet, despite not watching his feet. “LIZ!”

Peter rubs his hands together to try and generate some warmth. “Liz?” he yells, only able to see the souls of spirits through the gloom. There’s no bright point signifying a live person anywhere in his line of sight. The exit is now a twenty minute walk back.  _ I could be home right now. _

The air feels even colder now, temperature dropping by the second. The jacket, t-shirt and jeans combo isn’t warm enough to provide any comfort. He’s shivering so bad he can hear his own teeth chattering. “Dude, are you sure they didn’t just leave?”

“How would I know?” Flash mutters, not turning around. Peter glares at the other teen’s back. 

Another blast of frigid air has him curling in even more on himself, chin digging into his chest. He’s barely looking where he’s going, eyes shut against the unexpected wind. His foot knocks against something and he stumbles, arms shooting out and pinwheeling to catch his balance. A little  _ oof _ of breath leaves him. There’s nothing on the ground before him, and he even stares and squints for five whole seconds in case he’s just missing it in the dark. 

There’s a gravestone to his right, too far away and too big to be what he tripped over. Peter crouches, patting the ground with his hand. The grass is damp and frozen, but there’s no protrusions or bumps. He grimaces at the chill and shakes the moisture from his hand. Ahead of him, Flash continues on, not realizing Peter has stopped.

_ Shhhfff. _

A sound draws his gaze to the right, where the gravestone is. It sounded like something being dragged through the grass.  _ Could be an animal _ , he thinks.  _ Or the wind. _

Or someone hiding.

Peters stays where he is, crouched just two feet from the headstone. It’s pretty big, aged and rough with time. Someone could easily crouch behind it. “Liz?” he whispers.

There’s nothing for a moment, just him, the freezing air and the sound of Flash’s footsteps growing fainter. Then there’s another  _ shhhff  _ sound and every hair on Peter’s body rises. From the side of the gravestone fingers poke out and curl around the edge, whiter than moonlight and creaking like old wood. Peter doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. 

He should stand up and leave, he knows that. But it’s as if every bone in his body has frozen, the air sinking under his skin and weighing him down.  _ Fear, _ that’s what it is. The hand trails up the side of the gravestone, fingers  _ tap tap tapping _ as it goes. When it reaches the top it rests there, then is joined by another hand, the fingers stretching up and over. 

Peter’s breath quickens and deepens, sounding impossibly loud in his ears. The sounds of the night have dimmed, and Flash’s footsteps have long since disappeared. He couldn’t have gotten that much farther ahead, but Peter doesn’t dare turn his gaze away from the hands to check. It feels so cold. The fire in his own soul feels like it’s been extinguished, doused under a flood of slush and snow. The power is there, he knows it. He’s used it before. (Why can’t he grasp it—)

The fingers tap and wiggle at the top of the gravestone, dancing across the weathered rock in an eerie, nonsensical pattern. Peter holds his breath when the movements stop. It’s a long second of stillness. He doesn’t even blink. 

The fingers dig into the stone. From behind it rises a white creature, hairless and grinning. Lips blackened and dripping, goreish drool slipping down its bulging chin. The eyes are wide and deep, not a smidge of light reflecting in them. The skin sags in some spots and clings in others, chapped and cracked, sluggishly bleeding. A mangled foot steps up on top of the grave besides the hands, and the rotting poltergeist clings to the stone like a gargoyle. The movements are so swift it sends Peter’s heart rate skyrocketing, sweat beading at his temple even as his breath condenses in the air before him. 

_ Run. _ He thinks,  _ Move!  _

Peter’s limbs feel frozen solid but he jerks back, legs shifting clumsily beneath him as he tries to push himself up. When he moves, so does the Poltergeist, jolting forward with inhuman speed and wrapping its paper white fingers around his throat. Close up it looks even worse, like an overgrown gollum that’s half decayed. The trauma of it’s soul being warped has turned it into something new entirely, he can’t even tell what it could have possibly looked like when it was a normal spirit — or alive. 

It leans in close, spit coagulating like blood around its mouth. The grin hasn’t dropped, and now Peter can see every yellowed, crumbling tooth. He grasps frantically at the poltergeist’s wrists, tugging without any effect. It squeezes effortlessly, trapping him in his half-crouched position and tearing the air from his lungs. Weak gasps make their way past his lips, his vision growing spotty as red-hot panic sets in. 

The Poltergeist leans in until their noses almost touch and Peter can’t even recoil as some of the sludge caked around its mouth drips onto his face. 

“Parker? Dude, you can’t just stop--” 

He can’t see Flash, too busy clawing at the hands around his throat, but he faintly hears the other teen’s voice.

“Hey, Parker, quit messing around….you’re messing around, right?” 

There’s a beat, Peter’s vision darkening even further. He feels his neck muscles bulging and every artery and vein feels like it’s about to burst from his skin. He can’t speak. He can’t find the fire, too scared to even focus on it.

“Hey! Stay with me!” Flash’s voice comes in like static, “Are you having an asthma attack? Where’s your fucking inhaler!?” Hands roughly pat over his body and Peter thinks,  _ Oh wow, I’m actually going to die here. _

A spark blossoms in his chest. 

The Poltergeist hisses, spittle flying everywhere. One of its hands stays right where it is, choking the life out of him, while the other reaches to the side and shoves Flash so hard he hits the ground with enough to make him weaze. 

“What the fuck?” The teen exclaims, but it sounds like it’s been said from underwater. Peter stares into an abyss, the eyes of the Poltergeist hungry and endless. It wants him to hurt like it’s hurting, wants to consume his energy to try and patch itself together. It pulls him up, up, up, until his toes dangle over the ground and his eyes roll to the sky, where he sees the moon break from the clouds. A beam of light spills across his face.

_ I’m not dying here. _

Heat surges across his limbs, so fast it makes his body numb with the sensations of pins and needles. It bursts up his chest like a tidal wave, spilling from his mouth and eyes with dizzying force. The scent of grime and unwashed skin fills his nostrils as the Poltergeist screams and releases him, its wrist charred as black as its soul. Peter hovers for a moment, all on his own, fire spitting from his lungs and turning the world a fuzzy, molten gold. His eyes gleam — then fade back to their normal caramel brown and he drops to the ground without protest, exhausted and throbbing in pain.

The Poltergeist howls and flickers as the charred, blackened part of its skin begins to spread all over its body. Flash’s mouth drops open and his eyes go wide, he doesn’t move from his spot on the ground as the mangled soul flickers in and out of his sight. One last blast of frozen air whips across their skin as fire consumes the Poltergeist entirely and all that remains is the echoes of its inhuman screams ringing in his ears.

Peter’s neck burns and his head  _ pulses  _ as blood flow resumes. Even groaning is too much, the slightest sound feels like sandpaper scraping down his throat. He rolls over onto his hands and knees, trying to push himself to his feet. His heart is still pounding with adrenaline and his hands are shaking, fingers numb and tingling. It takes more effort than it should to pull his inhaler from his jacket pocket, and taking a puff of the steroid makes him wince. It’s not quite an asthma attack, but maybe it’ll help soothe his anxiety a bit. 

“What the fuck.” Flash’s voice is barely above a whisper. He’s sat on the ground, windswept and cheeks pink with the cold. The expression on his face can only be described as  _ shell-shocked _ . It’s fitting, seeing as his entire worldview has just been knocked on its head within the span of a few minutes.

Peter scrubs at his damp eyes, far past caring about Flash seeing them and more concerned about clearing his vision so he can get the hell out of here. His glasses had been knocked off his face when he’d fallen, and he picks them up from the frost-tipped grass and slides them back up his nose. When he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is a croak. A painful one at that, if the following wince isn’t telling enough.

Flash’s face screws up when he realizes the same. “...let’s get out of here.” He says, instead of launching a full-scale interrogation like Peter had expected him to. 

Awkwardly, the other teen hauls Peter to his feet. He steps back after Peter is settled, but stands closer than he ever would have before. They walk in total silence to the exit and Peter can’t tell if he’s grateful for it or not. The sullen air is far from what he expected. Anger, maybe. Mullish silence punctuated by grumbling, perhaps. He doesn’t know what to make of the other teen now, whose brows are furrowed and shoulders tight by his ears. There’s far more contemplation on Flash’s face than anything else, and Peter has never seen the other boy look that way.

(How well does he really know Flash?)

When they get to the exit, Flash’s friends and Liz are there. They’d run right out after getting spooked. Peter had gone back for nothing - or maybe not. Flash had still been in there, after all. He’s still wondering if it was worth it.

“What the hell, Parker?” Jeers Dan, “Are you crying? What, did you get scared?”

Any laughter is immediately brought to a stop when Flash’s voice rings out, sharp as a whip. “Shut your mouth, Dan. Just forget about it.”

Liz purses her lips, making her way to Flash’s side to press against his arm again. Whether it’s for her comfort or Flash’s, Peter doesn’t know. She eyes him for a moment, something like pity in her eyes. “Are you alright, Peter?”

He doesn’t know if he can bring himself to say anything. It wouldn’t be worth the pain to answer, and he doesn’t much care about staying here any longer than he has to. Meeting Flash’s eyes for a moment, Peter shrugs in response and turns away. He wants to get as far away from the graveyard as he possibly can.  _ He wants to go home. _ It’s just two stops on the train, then a bit of walking. 

The sound of footsteps is the only warning he gets before a hand grabs his shoulder. Flash’s face pops into view, expression unreadable.

“I’ll walk with you,” he says, and then goes silent once more. Peter sends him an exaggerated look of confusion, but it goes ignored. It’s not completely odd, as they live just a few doors down from each other. But Peter would have expected Flash to walk Liz home or something, like the gentleman he pretended to be. 

They don't speak the entire way back.

Peter wants to say that it’s awkward, but he’s too tired to really feel anything about the situation. It’s been some time since he’s used his soulfire (name in progress, soulfire sounded a little pretentious, but it  _ was _ on the nose). Just as he remembered, it takes a lot out of him and leaves him feeling strung out. He wants to sleep for a week. In fact — though he tries not to — he might just say he isn’t feeling well and skip school tomorrow. It was nearing 11 o’clock too, if Aunt May and Uncle Ben weren’t both working late shifts he’d be in a lot of trouble for coming home so late.

From one station to another, then four blocks, they’re quiet. Flash’s house is first, but the teen doesn’t stop, just sticks by Peter’s side like he’s afraid Peter will suddenly collapse and die right on the street. The living room light is still on in the Parker Residence, he can see it through the curtain. Another light on the top floor is too, at the far left. His and his brother’s room.

Peter trudges up the steps with Flash at his heels and fishes his house key from deep within his pants pocket. He sends Flash another look as he pulls open the screen door to get to the main one. Before he can insert the key into the knob, it swings open.

Ben stands there, brown curls askew and glasses missing from his face. His eyes narrow, immediately scanning Peter’s wet gaze and pale face, stopping to take in the red mark on his neck that’s rapidly turning purple. Ben’s face twists into something dark. Without saying a word he shoves Peter to the side, steps out on the porch, and punches Flash across the jaw.

“Fucker!” 

“Gghk!” Flash grunts heavily, body pitching harshly to the side. He doesn’t fall, a hand catching himself on the railing. Ben wasn’t exactly the strongest guy around either.

Peter lurches forward and grabs his brother’s arm, “B -- en!” he croaks out, shock plastered across his features. 

“Get the fuck off our porch, Thompson!” Ben ignores Peter, face flushed with anger. “Your normal dose of abuse wasn’t enough? Now you’ve gotta get your rocks off with attempted murder?”

Peter shakes his head, grip tightening on Ben’s arm. He tries to deny it, to say that for once it’s not Flash’s fault. But his voice is lost, too quiet and hoarse to be heard.

Flash rubs his jaw, face oddly blank. He doesn’t try defending himself. For a split second it looks like he wants to say something, brow tense and mouth parting -- but then he stops and backs off. Down the steps he goes, not looking back once. 

Kaine appears behind Ben at the doorway, peering over his shoulder. “Did you just fuckin’ punch Flash Thompson?”

“Yeah,” Ben says, and now that the other boy is gone he appears completely bewildered at the fact, looking at his own fist in wonderment. “Yeah, I did.”

Peter shakes his head, frustrated. It’s not like Flash didn’t deserve what was coming to him — he’d been an asshole to them enough that Ben should be allowed at least one good hit in retaliation, but it didn’t feel right that it was at  _ this  _ moment. As much of a bully as Flash was, he didn’t leave Peter in the dust tonight. A lesser man would’ve. Peter glances down the street, where he can faintly make out the figure of Flash Thompson half-way to his house, illuminated by yellow street lamps. Flash’s soul is a graying, depressed presence, shadowy in nature and hard to get a read on. But it’s splattered with bright spots, like diamonds among the dirt. Peter is hit with the realization that he doesn’t know much about the other boy at all. A soul like that made him seem… wounded. Oppressed. Like the actual content of his soul was trying to force its way through a mask.

Peter’s seen a lot of souls in his short lifetime. They possess the ability to get darker, as they always do once you pass a certain age, but they can also regress to a lighter shade. Your soul reflects the current you, and some people grow into better versions of themselves, while others only decline. It seems ridiculous to think so deeply on a subject like Flash Thompson, who’d been a thorn in Peter’s side since he started high school, yet he can’t help but wonder…

Does a part of Flash strive to be better?


	13. mint leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note - there's a bit about religion, specifically christianity, mentioned in a way that makes it seem "fake", or falsely created. this is not meant offend anyone, and this story is in no way focusing on that at all! i respect everyone's religions, no matter if i believe in one or not. any mention about religion being "disproved" is strictly because this is a supernatural/paranormal au, in a world where history went like .... well, like what you're about to read. thanks for all the comments and i'm glad you guys are still enjoying this fic! WE HIT 100k!!

" _One lives in the hope of becoming a memory._ "

\- Antonio Porchia

* * *

Peter doesn’t go to school the next day.

He covers up the bruises on his neck with stolen makeup and croaks out that he isn’t feeling well. With the way his voice sounds, his Aunt and Uncle believe him and send him back to bed. Ben scowls but says nothing and Kaine is much the same. Neither are happy about his decision to not tell their guardians about his injury, but at least they aren’t  _ as _ mad at Flash after he’d managed to explain what really happened. 

“I’m not gonna apologize for punching him,” Ben had said.

“I’m only sorry I  _ didn’t _ get to punch him.” Kaine wasn’t any better.

Peter couldn’t say much to that.

After breakfast, Peter has the house to himself. He finds himself staring at the ceiling from his bunk, like many times before. If he wanted, he could watch movies or play his GameBoy. It’s not like he’s actually sick and needs to sleep more. But instead of doing either of those things he finds himself reaching for the phone he keeps hidden under his pillow. He’s got Steve’s new number now, and he can always try Bucky as well. They’ve been talking back and forth for a few weeks now, unable to meet again in person just yet.

He suddenly realizes that, in all the time they’ve been talking, he’s neglected to ask if they have jobs. For all he knows they could be at work -- or still sleeping, because apparently vampires  _ did _ do that. Just not as long as humans did. 

There’s also the other numbers. He hasn’t asked about those either, too caught up in getting answers about the creatures walking among them. There’s almost twenty listed, all names he doesn’t recognize. 

The state of his throat is another matter. A few days ago Steve had told him over the phone which protective sigils to use to protect against Poltergeists, which is why he was kicking himself for not repairing the bracelet. If he’d remembered and worn it, that thing wouldn’t have touched him last night. With the way his voice is now it’ll be impossible to hold a long phone conversation.

He kind of wants to cry, too. But that wouldn’t be great on his throat either. Which sucks, because he hates crying in front of people and he’s rarely alone in a house like this, so now would be a good time. He just… doesn’t want to be alone right now.

Peter flips the phone open and takes a chance, calling Steve. 

“Peter?” Steve doesn’t take long to pick up.

“H-Hey,” he manages to croak out. His throat almost hurts more than it did yesterday.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Peter shrugs helplessly, even though Steve can’t see. “Hurts.” Is all he manages to say.

“Where are you?” The vampire sounds worried at the single word answer.

“Home.” Is the croaky response.

“Is anyone else home right now?”

“No,” he whispers, finding it easier than full-on talking. “Jus’ me.”

“I’m coming over, which is the best way inside where I won’t be seen?”

“Back.” Not that his Aunt or Uncle really talk to any of their neighbors, but it’s better safe than sorry.

He tells Steve his address before hanging up, hoping he hasn’t made a mistake in calling the man. Hiding the injury will probably be impossible with someone who can smell blood, so Peter washes off the concealer in the bathroom. The flesh of his throat is vivid purple and angry red, his eyes a bit bloodshot. Who  _ knows  _ how long recovery will take... 

It hurts to touch.

He keeps his phone on hand and trudges downstairs.  _ Maybe icing it will help, _ he knows they have some frozen vegetable packs in the freezer. 

That’s where he is when there’s soft knocking at the back door some thirty minutes later, a bag of peas against his throat. He gets up from the kitchen table and leaves the peas. Perhaps recklessly, he pulls open the door without looking at who it is. It’s Steve, of course, with his bright blue cat eyes and worried frown, not a hair on his head out of place.

“Good lord,” he mutters, gaze immediately drawn to Peter’s throat. In a totally non-vampiric sense. Hopefully. “What happened?”

Then he frowns, nostrils flaring.

“Poltergeist?” 

Peter nods, stepping aside to let the man in. He’s grateful for Steve’s analytics, it’s saving him from having to use his mangled vocal chords. The scent thing, however, is still a little freaky to see.

“Injuries caused by paranormal forces can take longer to heal,” the man says, “Did you take care of it?”

Peter nods, mimicking an explosion with his hands. It’s a good enough representation as to what actually happened. Objectively, it was interesting to see. This one he’d actually  _ witnessed _ disintegrate before his eyes. The first time he’d, for lack of a better word,  _ blown up _ a poltergeist, it had been slowed by Psalm 10 and so bright his eyes had been forced shut. This time he got it all in crisp, HD quality. Either he was getting better at using his abilities or… well, that’s the only theory he has right now.

“Of course,” Steve looks amused by this. Peter wonders if the man has witnessed Peter’s previous self do the same thing in person. “You know, I can call someone to help with that. It’s the only thing I can really think to do for you, otherwise I won’t be much help aside from providing company.”

“W-Who?”

“His number is actually in your phone, under  _ Bruce. _ ” Steve says, “He’s a… doctor. Of sorts. The kind that can make wounds from a Paranormal Being disappear.”

Peter sits down at the kitchen table again, Steve joining him after a moment. Pulling the phone from his pocket, Peter flicks it open and scrolls through the contact list. Sure enough, the name Bruce is there, right near the top. It’s actually right above Bucky’s name, but Peter had never really paid much attention to it.

“Trust ‘im?” Peter asks, brow furrowed. While he trusts Steve to an extent, inviting another strange man into his house isn’t exactly something he’s super excited to do.

“With my life.”

Well, that sure said a lot. Steve looks especially truthful when he says those words, though he always manages to. There’s something very boy-scout about his appearance.  _ It’s deceiving. _ Bucky’s already told Peter about all the times Steve got in trouble taking on people much bigger and badder than him.

Accepting that he can’t live like this for however long it’ll take to heal, Peter reluctantly nods.  _ It would be nice to be healed in the near future. _ Steve grins, the sun breaking through clouds, and Peter has to squint against it. How utterly unfair. 

“Let me call him.”

While Steve does that, Peter puts the melting bag of peas back in the freezer, tapping his fingers against the fridge door for a minute after and wondering how his life ended up like this. Steve speaks in quiet, hushed tones but doesn’t actively try to hide his words from Peter. There’s nothing suspicious about what the man says, he just mentions Peter’s injury and address.

“Bruce will be here in about a half hour. We’re lucky, he’s in the area.” Steve snaps his phone shut and puts it away.

“Work?” Peter asks when he gets back to the table, figuring he might as well take the opportunity to learn a little more about Steve’s personal life. So far he’d only spoken to the man about… literally anything else. 

“Do I work?” Steve fills in, waiting for Peter to nod in confirmation before continuing, “Yeah. I’m actually an artist -- when I’m not in and out of the military. I do a lot of commission work.”

Peter’s a little glad he can’t speak, because he most definitely would have said something stupid. Like how Steve didn’t look the type. Which wasn’t true at all -- you didn’t need to look a certain way for  _ anything _ . That lesson has been instilled in his head by his Aunt and Uncle. He can see Steve in the military, though it’s a little odd to think about how he could possibly explain the not-aging thing, or procure documentation.  _ Something to ask about later. _

He settles for nodding in response, then grabs a few strands of his hair and tugs them down, pairing it with a grumpy expression. 

Steve laughs, “Bucky?”

Peter nods. 

“He hasn’t really settled on anything concrete. We’ve both spent a lot of time in the military and we both like working with our hands. For me that translates to art, for Buck, it's a little more physical. Building things, putting in the work. He’s been making the rounds as a construction worker on and off for a few years.”

Peter can appreciate wanting to build things, to craft with your hands, but he doesn’t know what he would do without a constant influx of new material to absorb. Bucky seems to be a little more old fashioned in the work sense. Which was fine!

It’s hard to keep up a conversation when only one person has full talking capabilities, but Steve has a way of making Peter feel comfortable despite that. There’s very little time for awkward silences. The man speaks quietly about his week, about something funny Bucky did, about a TV show he was watching. Questions about what happened to put Peter in this state can wait.

As Steve promised, about thirty minutes later there’s a soft knock at the backdoor, almost timid in nature. Steve holds his hand up when Peter goes to stand, sending him back in his chair as the vampire goes to the door. He opens it to reveal a man who looks visibly older than Steve, with tired eyes and dark, curly hair. He’s in slightly unkempt dark slacks and a purple button up, a bag clutched to his chest.

The man’s soul is… odd. He’s Marked, sporting a relatively neutral-gray base with two splashes of color by his shoulders. The right is toxic green, the left a deep purple. Peter can count on one hand the amount of Marked persons he’s seen, his brother included, and not one of them had two colors. 

Bruce offers a weak smile, gaze immediately drawn to Peter’s brutalized neck. 

Peter offers his own awkward smile in response.

“Peter, right?” Bruce asks, the question rhetorical, “I’m Bruce. That’s quite the nasty bruise you’ve got there.”

It is, but he only shrugs helplessly in response. Trying to speak feels like getting stabbed in the throat. He’s already worn out from the few words he’d managed with Steve.

Bruce sets his bag on the table, approaching carefully and respectfully. It feels a lot like being at the Doctor’s office. At least -- the man gives off the vibe of a professional, despite his slightly wild look. Peter tilts his head up so Bruce can get a better look at the deep bruising. Bruce’s fingers hover slightly over the traumatized skin, but don’t touch. The man makes a soft sound of sympathy.

“Poltergeist, definitely.” Bruce turns to his bag, “Pretty nasty one, at that.”

“If anyone can heal it, it’s you.” Steve says, and Bruce looks visibly flustered in the face of Steve’s blind faith.

_ I feel you, buddy. _ Peter muses internally. 

Bruce takes a few glass vials from his bag, the kind that look like they belong in Harry Potter -- Peter would know, he’s just seen the movie so the visuals are fresh in his head. They’re all filled with various contents; one with plain blue liquid, another with what appears to be crushed leaves, and the last is… bits of crystal? Or salt. The final object pulled from the bag is what looks like a mortar and pestle, but modernized. Instead of stone they look to be made via ceramics and glazed like a bowl. 

Peter points at the vials with a curious expression on his face.

“Oh, um,” Bruce fiddles with his hands, “Poltergeists are able to leave wounds on the body by injecting some of their own darkness, or spiritual energy. Your own soul will naturally expel this intrusive energy over time, but doing so slows the healing process, making wounds dealt to you by the paranormal more troublesome and time-consuming. I’m crafting a potion for you that will get rid of that energy, as well as rapidly heighten your healing ability.”

Okay, fair. Peter finds himself intensely interested in the proceedings.

“I’ll be using Phoenix Tears, Arnica and Salt, for healing and purification.” As Bruce talks his voice becomes clearer, and he sets to work. The vial of crushed leaves -- Arnica, apparently, is poured in first. Bruce makes quick work of crushing the leaves with the pestle, his movements practiced and skilled. Then the blue liquid, the claimed  _ Phoenix Tears _ , is poured atop the paste. Amazingly, the contents spark and bubble, Bruce waving a hand to send the resulting smoke spiraling away. 

He mixes the contents once the bubbling ceases, creating a dark green paste. It looks a lot like sludge. Peter hopes he’s not expected to drink it, there’s no way he’s getting something that unappetizing down his throat without gagging it right back up.

Salt is sprinkled in after, the crystals making the concoction spark once more upon contact. It doesn’t take more than five minutes.

“This is a pretty basic potion,” Bruce explains, “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but your wounds are tame compared to… other incidents. Bruises are easier to heal than lacerations. Your soul is also remarkably strong, half the Poltergeist’s lingering energy is already entirely decimated.”

There’s an easy answer for that. Peter’s  _ Sixth Sense, _ his Soul Fire, is adept at burning evil. Apparently. 

Bruce hands the pestle to Steve carelessly. Steve dutifully goes to wash it off in the sink, seemingly familiar with this routine. Peter just hopes that whatever that gunk is doesn’t affect the pipes. 

“I don’t want to worry you, but Phoenix Tears are incredibly difficult to handle without protection. It’s best to only have areas of injury come into contact with it, therefore applying it can be bothersome.” Bruce rolls up his sleeves carefully, then flexes his right hand.

Right before Peter’s eyes, the vivid green Mark on the man’s shoulder shifts down, fluid like a living creature, and pools into his hand. The skin of Bruce’s hand turns green, visibly, not just the aura of his soul. 

“I’m going to spread this across the bruise, okay?” 

Peter nods dumbly, almost unable to believe what’s happening before his eyes. Once his throat is in working condition, he’s going to rip it to shreds again with the amount of questions he wants to ask.

Bruce dips his green hand into the paste, causing it to sizzle. There’s no pain on the man’s face, but the noise makes Peter a little worried. Still, he sits up straight, head tilted up to expose all the damaged flesh. Steve meets his eyes and gives him a reassuring nod.

The paste is warm. It spreads across his skin like mud, but doesn’t drip. Actually, it feels a lot like peanut butter in consistency. The heat coming off of it isn’t bad, it’s… oddly soothing. There’s more sizzling, but he doesn’t feel his flesh melting or any pricks of pain. Bruce is very careful not to put too much pressure on the bruise, spreading it all over until Peter feels like his entire neck is covered. 

The area heats up a little more, still completely tolerable, but to the point where he can’t actually tell that there’s anything  _ on _ his skin. He swallows.

It doesn’t hurt.

Eyes wide, Peter meets the dark gaze of Bruce, whose lips quirk just slightly. 

“It’s done. You can speak now.”

Instinctively, Peter raises his hand to touch his throat. He hovers over the flesh, and when neither Bruce nor Steve make a sound to stop him, he touches it. There’s no paste remaining, and the skin feels fine. 

“What?” He mutters, the word entirely painless. “Where did the paste go?”

“It seeps into your flesh and disperses as it heals.” Bruce explains patiently, putting his vials back in his bag. “Do you mind if I wash this out?”

Peter shakes his head numbly, watching as Bruce washes out his mortar in the kitchen sink. It paints a very surreal picture. Steve laughs from his seat at the table.

“You still with us?” he asks, humor painted across his handsome features.

“Yeah,” Peter replies quietly, “Just processing. Were those really Phoenix Tears? Like from Harry Potter?”

“From what?” Bruce asks, returning to the table with his freshly washed mortar.

Peter’s face twists up,  _ who hasn’t heard of Harry Potter? _

“A book series, Bruce.” Steve explains, “About magic.”

“I don’t know much about that, but they certainly are genuine Phoenix Tears.”

That’s a claim Peter never thought he’d hear. “You’re telling me there’s real, actual Phoenixes.”

Steve and Bruce share a glance.

“No.” Peter gasps. “What! Really?”

“They’re very rare and very private.” Bruce finally says, “So that information is best kept a secret.”

“Like anyone would believe me if I said anything,” Peter snorts. “I barely believe it myself.”

Bruce offers a wry grin and pushes his glasses up on his nose. He makes quick work of putting away all his materials, and Peter gets the feeling the bag holds a lot more than it really should. 

“There’s no side effects, right? I’m not gonna sprout feathers or throw up slugs?” He can’t help but ask.

Bruce gives him an odd look while Steve barks out a laugh, “No, nothing like that.”

“So… what are you then? A doctor? Steve was a little loose on the details.” 

Steve grins and pats Bruce on the shoulder, “He  _ is _ a doctor, in every sense of the word.”

“I have a few degrees to prove it,” Bruce murmurs, “But I don’t exactly practice medicine in the common sense. My patients are… not required to be human.”

So. Magic Doctor. Cool. Peter can deal with that. “Oh.”

“I have a shop,” Bruce continues, slipping the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “In the Heart of the District. I sell herbs and potions, things like that. From the state you were just in, I’d recommend stopping by. You look like you’ll need it.”

“What makes you say that? And what’s the ‘Heart of the District?’”

Bruce glances at Peter, eyes steady and sharp green. “It’s just a term for the location of the Preternatural Marketplace. As for how I know that you’ll need help, you  _ reek _ of power. This can’t possibly be your first attack, nor will it be your last.”

Steve winces, “Bruce—”

“You won’t always be here, Steve.” The man interrupts, flicking his gaze to the blond before returning his attention to Peter. “You’re stuck with that soul, kid. You were born with it, you’ll die with it. And it’s screaming.”

Peter swallows tightly, unsettled, “You can see it?”

“Not physically. It’s just a sense, like a speed-o-meter but for souls.” The answer is vaguely disappointing, but interesting all the same. Peter himself gets no really… sense of power from souls. 

He sees colors, which reflect the content of a person’s character, and if it’s an asshole like the Poltergeists or demons then he gets a feeling of dread. Of danger. A color-and-danger sense. He can appreciate the danger warning, if anything. Bruce’s ability seems cooler.

“Is that what the purple is for?” He asks, gesturing to Bruce’s shoulder. “Since the green looked to be protective.”

Bruce blinks, looking surprised. Behind him, Steve bites his lip to contain a smile. 

It becomes very clear to Peter that Steve had neglected to tell Doctor Bruce exactly what is so special about him. “Uh,” he stutters, “Is this supposed to be a secret?”

Steve shrugs, “That’s up to you, it’s not my ability.”

Right. Peter’s in charge here. He sits up a little straighter, feeling oddly important. This is something that  _ he _ gets to control. 

“Fascinating,” Bruce says, and his words are accompanied by a smile, electric eyes lighting up. “Incredible, actually. I’ve never heard of anyone with the ability to see a soul in the physical sense. And colored, too.”

“Oh, great.” There goes the possibility of finding someone to help him figure this thing out. “ But you know other people with different abilities, right? Is it individual?”

“Not… exactly.” Bruce begins, “Or rather, not entirely. It’s true that there are some abilities that are more unique than others, but very rarely is one ability limited to a single person. Empathic and other Sensory abilities are relatively common, followed by precognition, divination and minor telekinesis. Even my own gifts aren’t unique to me, my cousin has the same ‘protective’ ability, while I know a handful who also possess the Sense to read Soul Power. Keep in mind that what I’m talking about strictly applies to humans. Compared to other species, we’re the only ones who can be born with these extrasensory capabilities, or in my case, gifted them.”

“Gifted?” Peter thinks of Kaine and his coffee splash, of a boy he can’t remember streaked in cardinal red. “Is that why you have only  _ spots _ of color? The average person is grayscale… I call people like you  _ Marked, _ and people who are  _ all _ color  _ Chromatic. _ I’ve been trying to figure out the difference— my sister and twin are both Chromatic, and I know for a fact my sister was born that way. I assume the same for my twin, but...can’t really prove that.”

Bruce taps his fingers against the strap of his bag. “It’s a sound hypothesis. Like I said, I’m not able to see what you do. I wasn’t aware that souls had particular colors, but it certainly makes sense. As for me, I wasn’t born with my abilities. So if what you say about the average person being grayscale is true, then it must also be true that anything Gifted would then reflect on the soul. I’m assuming your twin and sister each have a  _ Sixth Sense? _ ”

“Yes…” Peter frowns at Bruce’s use of the terminology he’s only imparted on his siblings and two vampires. “How’d you know to call it that?”

“Call it what? Sixth Sense? It’s a common term in the world we live in. Coined a couple centuries ago. I have a book in my shop written by the woman who did it.”

Peter catches Steve’s eye, and the blond man gives him a very obvious, very meaningful look. It takes a moment for him to decipher what exactly it could mean… until he remembers that Steve had told him that one of his past lives had been female. 

_ Oh, _ he thinks, trying to keep the completely shell-shocked expression from his face.  _ I need to get my hands on that book. _

Bruce, who’s facing away from the vampire, misses the exchange entirely. “In my case, I was given my Gifts by an angel.”

Peter blinks. He repeats the words Bruce had uttered in his head. Pause. Repeat. Eyes blow wide open, head dropping forward, “What did you just say?”

“It’s referred to as being  _ Angel Touched.  _ Very rare. Far rarer than a naturally occurring Sixth Sense.”

“No, no, no,” Peter waves his hands to halt the conversation, “I’m sorry, did you say angel? As in, God’s feathery children?” He turns to Steve, “You couldn’t have dropped this bomb on me earlier?”

Steve snorts, continuing to be a very unhelpful vampire. “Wasn’t particularly sure you’d believe me. It’s not like what you’re thinking, Pete. What humans call  _ Angels _ don’t match up to exactly what they really are.”

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Think. Theorize. Concept: Angels were just supernatural creatures, a species like vampires — but obviously not vampires. Hypothesis: Someone saw one and thought it was divine intervention because this was before the time of science and people were idiots. “You’re telling me some dude crafted the whole bible and largest religious cult following because he possibly saw one of these creatures and decided to call it God. Is that it?”

“Essentially. It’s to our understanding that Jesus was a real man, just… Gifted.” Steve says, like he’s talking about the weather or the wonderful day he just had being a normal person doing normal person things. 

“Oh, is that all?”

Bruce laughs softly, “It’s a lot to take in, yeah.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to get used to it,” Peter says dryly. “Please, continue.”

“I can’t tell you much about them, not because I don’t want to, but because there’s very little to tell. Knowledge of Angels is sparse, they very rarely speak to those they give Gifts to.”

“Bruce here is quite special,” Steve interrupts, “He’s been Angel-touched twice.”

“Yes,” the man says wryly, “That’s possibly why you see two different colors attached to my soul. Angels appear during pivotal moments in a person’s life and offer them a Gift.” He pauses, thinking over his words, “Well, I say  _ offer _ , but there’s never much choice.”

“Kaine has always had his Mark, though. For as long as I can remember… and there’s nothing pivotal that could possibly have happened to him.” Peter furrows his brow, hand twitching. He feels desperate to write down all he’s learned, even if the information will be forever ingrained in his memory. 

Steve and Bruce share a glance.

“What?” Peter asks, catching it.

Steve purses his lips. “Well… in a case like that, with no other alternatives available, it’s likely that the pivotal moment was..”

“His birth.” Bruce finishes. “His very entrance into the world was a pivotal enough moment to call forth an Angel.”

* * *

When Bruce leaves, Steve sticks around for about another hour. They go over some more information about the other species that roam the earth, and the vampire promises to take Peter and his brothers to Bruce’s shop sometime soon. 

When he’s alone, he stares at the pile of fresh notes on his desk and feels the heat of the afternoon sun slipping in from the window. He wonders if he had siblings in his past life. He can ask Steve, if he really wants to, but that feels cheap. What good will it do to have names but no feelings attached to it? 

( A big wooden box. The look in his Uncle’s eyes. )

Or maybe it’s better that he doesn’t remember, so he never has to know. He never has to feel that pain. Peter stands from his desk and shuts the curtain, dimming the room. His back feels hot. 

Kaine.

Kaine is important. Or something. The two men hadn’t said much about it, their knowledge of Angels just as minimal as promised. It worries Peter, but it’s more than just the  _ not knowing _ . It’s his brother, his little brother, who may be a pain in the ass who  _ punched first, asked questions later _ — but.  _ But. _ So what? No, that’s exactly what Kaine was. He was Peter’s little brother. Whatever came for him, if anything, they’d have to go through Peter first.

Because as much as Bruce had said that Angels were rare and people who were lucky enough to see one only ever saw them  _ once _ , there’s no reason to bestow Gifts on people for no reason. Peter refuses to believe it’s out of boredom. There has to be some kind of plan behind it, like maybe they’re looking for someone specific. Maybe they have no control over what power each person gets, so keep choosing people in search of a specific one. 

“Christ.” He mutters into the stagnant air. His already heightened sense of paranoia has him thinking up all manners of conspiracy theories — like the fact that there could possibly be a secret society within an already secret society. 

Speaking of Secret Societies,  _ The Heart of the District _ was a location, an honest to god  _ location,  _ in the streets of New York, hidden away from the prying eyes of the average human. The Marketplace was called  _ The District, _ and it was split into sections all named after body parts. Interesting… and creepy. Bruce’s shop was in the Heart. Apparently it’s not so easy to get into the District to begin with — Peter can’t help but think of  _ Harry Potter _ once again — like Diagon Alley. 

Which is why Steve made Peter promise to  _ not _ go looking for it and wait to be shown around. 

He huffs.  _ Not like I could find it, it could be anywhere in the whole state of New York. _

Now that his throat is healed, he feels rejuvenated. The odd depression and desire to not be alone has completely evaporated — almost like the remnants of the Poltergeist energy had been weighing him down. 

Which, now that he thinks about it, had probably been the case. 

He pulls his phone from his pocket. It would be stupid to call Steve again. His siblings and Uncle Ben will be back in an hour — 

So he doesn’t. The other names in his contacts list stare back at him, faceless. Steve hadn’t said anything about deleting the names, but he hadn’t explained them either. It’s partially Peter’s fault as well, he keeps forgetting to ask about it. At least now he knows who  _ Bruce Banner _ is — and he’s glad to have the man’s number, in case of an emergency. 

“Hng,” he grumbles, flipping the phone shut and tossing it haphazardly on Ben’s bed. His body follows, making the bed creak under his weight and pushing a breath from his chest. Face down in the pillow, he doesn’t bother to pull the blankets around himself, just shuts his eyes and angles his head enough to allow him to breathe. 

Despite not feeling especially tired, within a few seconds he sinks into a doze, the world going hazy. The cotton sheets under his fingers, the press of his shirt under his chest, the tickling warmth of the room — he still feels it all. His heartbeat thuds in his ears, pillow warming with every exhale. 

The thudding becomes less rhythmic. 

He furrows his brows. It begins to sound less like steady thumps and more like disjointed… explosions? When he tightens his fingers around his sheets, it’s dirt that slips across his hand. The scent of smoke and iron fills his nose. 

Someone screams his name. 

But it’s not  _ his _ name. Not  _ Peter _ . Yet still his name. A name he’d once been called. The explosions are so loud, though; he can’t make out what it is. He just knows it’s his, knows that the person yelling for him is a friend. 

It sounds familiar, the cadence. Like he’s heard it a million times.

_ Steve? No... _

Peter’s fingers slide across the dirt and mud, dust filling his lungs. There’s a bell ringing, constant and growing louder. He groans, body twitching — desperate to cover his ears. But he can’t move. His entire body is frozen. 

He chokes on ash.

A hand pulls him up, tight on his bicep, slings his arm across a pair of broad shoulders. It feels odd, like the other person is either too short or he’s too tall. His legs feel like jelly, and far bulkier than the knobby-kneed ones he’s used to.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, Miggy.” The person carrying him says, borderline hysterical and cracking into laughter.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet…” The words fall from his own mouth, lips moving of their own accord. It’s like he’s just a passenger in someone else’s body. 

“Well how about we check you for a concussion before you go off to do your next stupid thing, huh?”

Mi-Peter grins dopily, far too hot and sweating so badly his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin. Sweat and blood slips down his face, and he knows it’s blood because he tastes it on his tongue, sharp and bitter. “It’s just a cut, babe.”

“Don’t  _ babe  _ me.” the voice mutters, but Migu-Peter can hear the grin even if he can’t see it. (Can’t see anything.) “It’s not just a cut.”

“Can’t hide anythin’ from your nose, can I?” His head throbs something fierce, every explosion in the distance adding to the mounting stress. 

Bucky snorts, “As if. You fuckin’ reek, candy boy.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Miguel drawls, leaning his weight more firmly against the other. The vampire can take it. Could sweep Miggy up into his arms and bolt across the battlefield in three seconds flat if he really wanted. Alas. Pretenses.

“Only to you.” Bucky grins, doused in sweat and mud, sharp teeth stark white against the muck. (He’d forgotten he couldn’t see. He’s always seen? Hasn’t he?)

The sky is overcast and gray, the air heavy with dread and gunpowder. A war rages behind them, ceaseless and violent and born entirely of man. But Miguel can only throw his head back against Bucky’s shoulder and laugh. “I love you,” he gasps, because he’s inhaled too much hatred today. “Captain Buck.”

“You’re not dying yet, so don’t get sappy.” Is what the vampire says, but a softer smile plays along his lips and he hoists Miguel up a little more. “And please stop with that awful nickname.”

“Fine then… where’s Steve? I need to put some lovin’ on  _ that _ man, if you know what I mean.” He jokes dirtily, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Bucky tucks his head down to laugh, their temples brushing. All he smells is their combined sweat and copper, tobacco and the mint leaves tucked in Bucky’s coat pocket. Miguel tucks his head more firmly against Bucky’s shoulder, eyes slipping shut. Bucky lets him.

“Peter?”

He frowns. Who’s Peter? His name is Miguel — Miggy to his friends. Sergeant Miguel O’Hara of the 108th — 

“ _ Peter, _ wake up.” A hand grips his shoulder and shakes him.

He opens his eyes. He feels cotton sheets under his hands and the softness of a pillow under his cheek. Ben stands by the bed, looking mildly confused. His hand drops back to his side, backpack hanging from one shoulder.

Peter sits up, blinking furiously. In an instant, everything shifts back into place. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit?” Ben repeats, questioning.

“I think I just saw a part of my past life.” 

His twin drops his bag by his side, sliding into the bed beside Peter. “Tell me.”

* * *

That night, Peter flips his phone open after everyone else has fallen asleep. The glare of the light makes him squint and he has to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. He thinks about what he remembered; the sound of Bucky’s laugh, their easy camaraderie and the faintest hint of sharp mint on a battlefield. Is it true that he used to be Miguel — or is Miguel locked inside him? Peter doesn’t remember everything about Miguel, he just has a name and a memory… and the knowledge that he’d loved them. Bucky and Steve. Loved them wildly and without abandon, in the heat of war.  _ Brothers in arms.  _

A part of him feels inexplicably sad, because it was  _ Miguel _ that Bucky and Steve loved, not Peter. Even if he was the reincarnation of their friend, it wouldn’t ever be the same — not really, not unless he got all his old memories back. 

What could that possibly feel like? How could they even look at him?

He hopes the weird memory trance he fell into earlier is a sign that he’s getting them back. Steve had told him that some past versions only ever got bits and pieces, so if that is all he gets he’s going to be wildly disappointed. And probably mad. There’s nothing more frustrating to Peter than  _ knowing _ that you’re missing pieces to a puzzle.

Would it be cruel to text Bucky? Even though a part of Peter calls out to the other? It feels a bit like he’s suddenly gained two more brothers. All these feelings hitting him at once, full force and without warning -- he doesn’t know how to cope with it all, and hates how confused it makes him feel. Confusion never sat right with him. It always just makes him angry.

**Peter** :  _ I remembered something. _

He texts before he can stop himself, then bites his thumb harshly. For all he knows, the man could be sleeping. 

His screen lights up, phone vibrating in his hand. 

**Bucky** :  _ What? _

He sighs. Too late now.

**Peter:** _ You. A battle. You smelled like mint and called me candy boy. _

There’s a long pause. Long enough that Peter starts to get nervous and thinks that maybe he has made a mistake. 

**Bucky:** _Do you remember his name_

Peter stares at the screen. He doesn’t know what Bucky wants from him. Maybe the vampire just wants Miggy back, and Peter is just an annoyance. He can’t tell. (He can’t blame him.)

**Peter:** _ Miguel O’Hara. He loved you. _

**Bucky:** _I loved him._

Peter thinks about how Bucky never said it back before, when he’d practically carried Miguel away from a battle. Did he ever get the chance to say it? Just once?

He shuts the phone and slides it under his pillow, feeling sick to his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEFORE ANYONE GETS THE WRONG IDEA: the 'love' being mentioned at the end is FAMILIAL / PLATONIC. bucky and steve were not in love with miggy, and likewise miggy was not 'in love' with bucky or steve. back then expressions of love held a far less sexual connotation and seeing as steve and bucky are vampires, they don't entirely act within human society norms to begin with.


	14. sugar and spice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure if im happy with this chapter... it's more of an info dump than anything,,, but we do meet someone special :)

_"It's better to be a lion for a day than a sheep all your life."_

\- Elizabeth Kenny

* * *

Three weeks after what Peter has dubbed _The Graveyard Incident_ , Flash Thompson has not talked to him once. This includes bullying. In fact, Flash has been avoiding him like the plague, or just sends vaguely obscure _looks_ at Peter in the classes they do share together. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it yet. He doesn’t owe the other teen anything, not even an apology for the bruise the blond had been sporting thanks to Ben’s sucker punch. But having someone like _Flash_ know about Peter’s abilities, even a little, even if the other teen doesn’t know what to make of it — it’s… odd. Worrisome. Especially since the first thing Peter thought the guy would do is corner him in the halls and demand an explanation. Instead, it looks like he’s reevaluating his entire life thanks to Peter’s near-death and subsequent lifting of the veil. _Surprise, ghosts are real!_

Forget that, he’ll worry about it later. There’s already too much on his plate as it is, like worrying about getting off at the wrong stop while on their way into the city. They’d already missed the first train by accident, so they’re running a little late as is. Not that it isn’t fitting, because Peter seems to be late for most things, his head stuck in the clouds more often than not.

The _Heart of The District_ is in Manhattan. Peter thinks it’s quite funny, all things considered. It’s a gloomy Saturday when they go, the sky overcast and threatening to rain down upon them. For a Spring day it’s depressingly chilly, the strong breeze sending his hair into disarray. It’s almost an improvement to his usual bed head. Peter is wrapped in a ratty green raincoat about two sizes too big, a recent find at the local thrift store. It may be old, but at least it’ll last through most of Peter’s growth spurts. His brothers’ coats are in similar condition, though Ben’s is blue and Kaine’s is red. The jackets are some of the few articles of clothing that belong to them individually. Peter loves it a lot more than he should.

Just down the street from the station the crowd of pedestrians has yet to completely thin out, but the three boys easily spot the two vampires waiting for them under an awning. The two men stand out, clueless humans drawn to their handsome features and odd auras. Peter watches a group of girls pass by them, giggling and glancing back. 

He can’t even blame them.

Steve is dressed in khaki slacks and a blue button-up, a dark jacket fitted to his shoulders. To Peter’s never ending amusement, he dresses like an old guy. Bucky, on the other hand, dresses more for comfort, in jeans and a long-sleeved red shirt, his own dark jacket a little looser than Steve’s. There’s also a baseball cap on his head, the brim frayed and strands of hair hanging down by his shoulders. Peter’s never seen him without it up. 

He also hasn’t contacted Bucky since their odd texting conversation, which is entirely Peter’s fault. He can barely look the man in the eye right now — either of them, really. Because there’s no way Bucky hasn’t told Steve about it, even if Steve never brought it up while they were discussing where to meet up today. 

It’s a conversation he’s not really looking forward to. He doesn’t know where he’d even start, or what they truly want from him. _Their friend back, obviously._ But Peter is never going to be Miguel again. He’s Peter now, take it or leave it. (He really hopes they don’t leave.)

“Took your sweet time.” Bucky greets, a slow smile on his mouth and no hint of awkwardness in his cat-like eyes. 

“We missed the first one,” he explains, “Sorry.”

“Are we gonna see Diagon Alley now?” Ben asks, his shoulder knocking Peter’s.

Steve laughs, “Pretty much, kid. C’mon, follow us.”

Peter and his brothers follow when the two vampires leave the safety of the awning, a light drizzle having started while they briefly spoke. Luckily it’s not far, just two buildings over. Unluckily, it doesn’t take much for Peter and Ben’s glasses to become useless, splattered with wayward drops of rain. 

There’s an alleyway next to a little shop, a convenience store by the look of it. A sign reads _Romanova_. The letters are neon red and glowing, and from this close Peter can hear the thrum of electricity. He thinks the alley is where they must be going, but Steve and Bucky enter the shop instead. Glancing at his brothers, who glance back with varying degrees of curiosity, Peter enters in after them. Bucky is holding the door open, and Peter tries not to make it awkward even though his tense frame must be obvious. The older man doesn’t call him out, just offers another grin that speaks of a million words and draws a similar one to Peter’s face before he can help it. 

The shop isn’t anything special, it looks like any other quick stop-n-shop mart that sits on every corner of New York. It’s pretty clean and well stocked, the check-out counter is just a few feet to the left of the door and a man with a red apron on is manning the cashier. He looks far older than Steve and Bucky, hair more gray than black — or what hair he has remaining. But apparently looks can be deceiving, so Peter isn’t willing to stake his money on an age. 

The cashier is also a vampire, his soul the exact same colors as Steve and Bucky’s. When the man looks up as they walk in, he seems to recognize the two, tipping his head a little to gesture to the door behind the counter. 

There’s no one else in the store, so Bucky tosses his thumb in the direction of Peter and his brothers. “They’re with us.”

“I see.” Is all the man says, scrutinizing them for a split-second. His eyes are dark hazel, the slit pupils a little more difficult to make out. He doesn’t stop them when all five make their way behind the counter, Steve entering the non-descript door first. 

Peter eyes the man carefully, but the vampire goes back to ignoring them after those two short words. He wonders if humans come here a lot, or if the cashier just assumes them to be some other kind of creature. Surely there must be some kind of system of rules and regulations in place to keep humans away? If the supernatural world is such a well-kept secret, the last thing they’d want to do is start bringing normal humans here.

 _Ah, maybe that’s it._ He glances at his two brothers, who are inspecting the room they’ve found themselves in. It looks like a large maintenance room, walls lined with shelves filled to the brim with overstock and cleaning surprise. There’s a desk with a TV monitor on it, showing the feed from a security camera within the store. 

_We’re not normal humans._

“...there’s nothing here.” Kaine mutters, brow furrowed. “I thought there’d be somethin’.”

“Just wait for it,” Steve says jovially, before grabbing a rack of shelves against the back wall and pulling. It swings forward, attached to part of the wall behind it, which is in fact _not_ a wall, but a secret door. 

“Dude!” Ben exclaims, “Are we having a James Bond moment?”

“Something like that,” Bucky mutters. 

The space behind the wall is — nothing. It’s a box. Empty, completely square, with a light bulb hanging from the high ceiling. Bucky and Steve step in.

“Coming?” The blond says, smiling in a fretfully disarming manner. Bucky shoves his hands the pockets of his jacket and leans against the back wall of the box.

“What… the hell is this?” Kaine asks, a stubborn set to his jaw. “Are you yankin’ our chains? You’re not actually doing all this to kill us, are you? That dude back there isn’t in on this, is he?”

“Chill out, they’re not part of some human trafficking ring.” Peter rolls his eyes.

Kaine throws his hands up, “We don’t know that! They could be! Vampires, Peter. Vampires.” 

“We’re not gonna kill you, you little twerp.” Bucky says, amusement clear in his sharp blue eyes. “It’s an elevator.”

“Oh.” Peter steps in immediately, turning to the side and seeing three buttons. Up arrow. Down arrow. E. Likely for emergencies. Even supernatural beings need help when technology fails them. Ben steps on without preamble, followed by a scowling Kaine, which is his default expression. 

Steve pulls the secret door back into place, sealing them in the box. As soon as the wall is where it’s supposed to be, the buttons light up. He presses the one with the down arrow. They descend in silence. Peter pretends he can’t feel Bucky’s eyes on his back.

It takes almost three whole minutes before the elevator jerks to a stop, far longer than Peter anticipated. _How far down were they?_ Of course, he then realizes he could ask this question out loud, so he does.

“Somethin’ like a mile.” Bucky replies gruffly.

Ben gasps in amazement, “No way! Really?”

Steve offers a blinding grin, clearly amused by the three boys’ shock. “Didn’t feel like it, huh?”

“Are you kidding? There’s no way we went a whole mile that fast!” Kaine exclaims.

Steve steps forward and pushes against the front wall. It swings open, revealing it to be just as fake as the one about a mile above them. Immediately, they’re bombarded with the sounds of a busy street. A blast of hot air hits them, heavy with the scent of earth and spice. Peter walks forward slowly, caramel gaze wide and incredulous as he takes in the scene before him.

There’s a city sprawling farther than his eye can clearly see, the buildings not skyscraper height or made with straight lines and geometric blankness, but rather with the organic shapes that belonged in an era long passed. The ceiling was far, far above, dropping lights down via thick, aged chains. He could see people — creatures, other beings, species, _whatever_ — flying, dodging the hanging lights and each other with familiar ease. A cobblestone street led straight from the elevator into the heart of it all, slightly uneven but adding to the rustic, medieval aesthetic of the buildings that cropped up some twenty feet away. Spires and short towers, buildings made of ramshackle wood or glittering, polished stone. Trees sprouted in alleys between every building, flower garlands and vines crawled and grew from balconies and rooftops. 

Someone’s hand at his back pushes him forward, and he moves without thinking, too caught up in observing the scenery around him. It was an entire city… _under a city_. He can’t even begin to imagine how they created something like this, or how they kept it hidden.

Peter walks along the bumpy road, a hand on his shoulder guiding him and holding him up whenever he stumbles. The start of the city has a fountain that looks to be made of solid white marble, larger in width than Steve is tall. There’s a statue in the middle of a mermaid, water spitting straight up from her mouth and creating an umbrella-like spray. He peers in as they pass, seeing flashes of fish and the glint of coins at the bottom of crystal clear water. The buildings around them look like shops and cottages — but the kind of cottages you find in the woods, inhabited by a witch and her jars of possibly human body parts. Peering at the signs, however, he realizes that they aren’t homes, but quainter, smaller shops. 

He’s starting to understand why Steve had said The District was really a huge supernatural Marketplace. The people that pass by are so _vibrant_. He’s never seen so much color all in one place before. The only spot of gray he sees is from Kaine and a man across the street, who has a giant teal slash through his torso. It’s something, though. At least they aren’t the only humans down here, so they won’t get as many looks as Peter had been anticipating. 

“This is… whoa.” He murmurs, finally breaking his stunned silence.

Ben snorts. “What he said.” 

Kaine remains silent, his eyes tracking across the street like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. They must all look so _human_ to him, since he can’t see past the ‘guise’ supernatural creatures wear. 

“Stick close and don’t wander off.” Steve reminds them, and Peter finally notices that it’s the blond vampire who’s gripping his shoulder. Bucky gently herds Ben and Kaine closer with a few nudges. The five of them make their way slowly down the street, brushing by people and taking in the sights of the shops that pass. Peter sees a man with black horns sprouting from his temples step out of a nearby shop, bringing with him the scent of pastries and vanilla. His soul is deep green with bursts of yellow scattered about. It’s so… normal. Sure, the architecture looks over a hundred years old (and very well-kept), but everyone’s just going about their day like there’s nothing out of the ordinary. It’s kinda blowing his mind a little.

“This is officially the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.” He breathes.

“Just you wait, Pete,” Bucky says, and they meet eyes for the first time since they met up in front of the shop, “We’re just getting started.”

* * *

“Imagine one of those spinning wheels on a game show, split into different parts. Or a sunflower — you have the black part in the middle and then the petals branching off in a circle. That’s the way this place is set up. In the District, the area in the center is the _Heart_ , and there’s six ‘petals’ around it for a total of seven ‘parts’. _Mouth, Lungs, Larynx, Liver, Spine, Kidneys_ and _Heart._ This area here, where the elevator is, is called the _Mouth_ . If we keep going straight, this street will lead up to the _Heart_.” Steve explains as they walk, the three boys so enraptured and out of their depth that they can only listen in silence and look in awe at their passing surroundings. 

“If we start going to the left, we hit the _Lungs_. Right? We hit the _Larynx_.” The vampire continues, “And I really do mean it when I said you need to stick close. Peter especially.”

“Why?” he asks, ripping his gaze away from a woman with blue skin and _scales_ to peer at Steve.

The man looks apologetic for a moment, mouth tight. “Do you remember what I said the first time we really talked? About your scent?”

Peter blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” the man says, “Oh.”

“I don’t pretend to know everything about Miguel, close as we were, so I couldn’t tell you every person you’ve ever known across your multiple lifetimes. Someone we don’t know could recognize you by scent, and you need to be prepared for that.” Bucky interrupts, and it’s the first time Miguel’s name has hit the air between them. It’s not as weird as Peter had thought it would be. “So don’t wander… and we’ve got your back if you need it.”

“We won’t let anything happen to you, Peter,” Steve confirms, looking at Peter with soulful blue eyes, like he thinks Peter needs to be convinced of their conviction. He doesn’t.

They walk for a while, Peter and his brothers asking questions about every unfamiliar thing they pass. It smells heavily of flora, and Peter reaches out to touch a hanging flower as they walk under a wooden pergola, deep green vines circling the support beams. No one gives them a second glance. Here, they’re just… people. Ben bumps a shoulder against his own, and Peter turns to meet his twin’s glittering gaze. There’s a smile on his brother’s lips. Peter returns it without question.

A few steps ahead, Kaine tilts his nose up and sniffs the air, dark eyes searching. “You smell that?”

Peter stops just short of his youngest brother, taking in a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“Smells like… something fried?” Ben murmurs, eyes shut as he dramatically scents the air.

“It’s comin’ from _Ulysses._ ” Steve says, gesturing at the little shop to their right. The storefront resembles a cottage, prettily designed with white wood and wide, flower-box lined windows. There’s an aged sign with deep blue lettering hanging just above the door, the carefully painted script reading _Ulysses._ “It’s a cafe and paper store.”

Kaine’s stomach grumbles audibly and he flushes, looking down. 

“...you guys hungry?” Steve asks, kindly not drawing too much attention to the sound.

“We don’t have any money.” Peter replies, and it’s not really a lie. They have money to take the train home and that’s it.

“Don’t worry about it.” Steve says, clapping Peter on the shoulder and walking into the cafe. With Bucky at their backs, the three brothers are forced to follow. 

The inside is reminiscent of a coffee shop, except the tables and counters are carved from a pretty dark wood that looks like it’s growing right out of the floor, and past the tables are a few rows of books and knick-knacks. The walls are painted a deep, rich blue in swirling shades, mimicking ocean waves and whirlpools. 

Steve gestures to the menu, which hangs behind the counter. “Order what you like, don’t worry about the price. I promise Bucky ‘n I have enough money to last us _lifetimes,_ so you’re not threatening to eat us out of house and home.”

Peter flicks his gaze away from the man sheepishly. Letting go, even briefly, of his monetary habits is pretty difficult. But if Steve insists… Well, Peter’s not gonna turn away a chance for free food. He _is_ a growing boy, after all. 

The menu lists familiar items like coffee, sandwiches, pastries and cookies — then some that aren’t at all, like _Frosted Heracles,_ _Virvian,_ and _Searen._ Those aside, Peter can almost pretend he’s above ground, in a regular cafe in New York. 

“You guys can’t drink _Virvian?_ ” Ben asks, and Peter looks closer at the item on the menu and sees that there’s a note below it that says: _Not safe for Vampires._

“Some of the ingredients don’t agree with our biology.” Bucky replies, “Think of it like havin’ extreme lactose intolerance.”

Peter orders a ham and cheese panini. He’s never had a panini before, but it’s the closest thing to a plain ol’ ham and cheese, so he’ll take it. The cashier who takes their order doesn’t look much older than them, her dark hair tied into a bun and a customer service smile pasted to her face. She’s got green sclera and no visible iris or pupil, slender hands topped with clawed finger tips and what looks like shimmering, forest green scales creeping out from under her collar and across her cheekbones. There’s a single lock of white hair tucked behind her ear, and her soul is a storm of swirling blues not unlike the painted walls around them. 

Her name tag says _Rogue,_ and Peter grows tongue-tied looking at her bland expression. He wants to ask her what species she is, but isn’t sure if that’s appropriate or not. Plus, she’s really pretty, and he thinks he if he opens his mouth something stupid will come out. 

While they wait for their food, Peter wanders over to the section of the cafe housing the rows of books. There aren’t many, but this cafe isn’t very large to begin with. It’s more homey, with a cute hole-in-the-wall vibe, like a class town favorite. It’s probably family owned, Peter recognizes the quaint feel from the restaurants and shops the Parker’s frequent in Queens. He decides he likes it. 

Very few of the books offered are recognizable, what’s more surprising is that he _does_ recognize some at all. It’s mostly classic literature, but there are a few random stories that he’s seen in the library — and now he’s wondering exactly how many popular authors are not actually human. He runs his fingers over the soft spines of various paperbacks, not settling on one in particular. The book that does eventually catch his eye is titled: _The Official Bestiary of the Modern Century._ Pulling it off the shelf, he flips through the pages, eye catching on brightly drawn sketches and scripted titles. This is a gold mine of information! Forget writing it all down, if he could have an official guide to all the supernatural species out there, he’d get on his knees and beg Steve and Bucky to buy it for him.

“Ooooh! good choice, caramel kid.”

Peter looks up reflexively when he hears how close the voice is, the actual words registering a second later. “What?”

There’s an older boy standing beside him, and that’s about all he can see before he has to squint and turn away, flinching at the ugly amalgamation of color almost too bright to stand. The other boy’s soul is… Peter doesn’t have words for it. 

“Hey, I didn’t scare you, did I? That whole flinching thing hurts my feelings…”

He _is_ being rude. Aunt May would have his hide if she could see him. “Sorry, your soul is just...startling.” That’s one way to put it.

He manages to crack his eyes open, adjusting to the sheen of color surrounding the boy — who’s not really a boy at all, but a young man. He must be around a decade older, though Peter can’t say for sure. Everyone seems to look the same for a bit after they finish puberty, plus this guy isn’t human so he could be far older than Peter assumes. Age aside, the man is big, almost a whole foot taller and maybe twice as wide as Peter, all solid muscle. Blond hair is cropped close to his scalp, and his eyes are — _interesting_. A little scary, actually, the sclera completely black and his eyes a shade of crystal blue so light they almost look white. In the middle of each iris is a pupil that resembles a starburst, the longest points at the top and bottom. A single black horn curls from the hairline of his left temple towards the back, stopping just past a pointed ear. It’s not a very long horn, but Peter’s not exactly a horn expert. Yet.

The stranger is smiling, revealing teeth that are way too sharp for a human mouth. His face is handsome, his eyelashes dark and long and distracting. He’d approached with a silent, prowling grace that brings uncomfortable memories to Peter’s head. But he ignores that for now, because the state of this man’s soul is… incredible. 

It’s as if a kindergartener had spilled every color imaginable across their canvas, then stuck their pudgy hands in it and mixed around. The colors swirl and mix with no rhyme or reason, some colliding into a tangled mess that fades to an ugly shade of brown. There are even patches of gray throughout, though Peter can only concretely count three spots of it. 

He’s never seen anything like it.

“My soul? Wowie! You can see it?” The stranger chirps, talking loose and fast and childish. “I’ve never met a human who could do that. You are human, right? You know what they say about assuming…”

“Yes…” Peter purses his lips, wondering if mentioning that had been a smart idea. “And as far as I know, I’m human.”

“Thought so!” The man laughs, finger darting forward to bop Peter’s noise. “You certainly smell like one. Very tasty.”

Peter recoils at the touch, frowning heavily. “Did you want something?”

“Hm…” the blonde man hums, considering the question, “Nope! I just got distracted by your scent! Like I said, very tasty…”

“I’m not on the menu.” Peter says dryly, putting up a steady veneer while his heart pounds away in his chest. “So, if that’s all…”

“Oh, so cold.” The man gasps, grasping his chest. “I wasn’t gonna eat’cha, cutie! There’s laws! I think! Well, I never read the rule book but I’m pretty sure there’s something in there about it. Not that I give a shit about laws anyway. Wait, how old are you? Sorry about my shitty language, I’ve got suuuch a potty mouth. Runs in the family, we’re all real classy folks! You should follow the law, though. They’d definitely eat you alive in jail, you’re like a cute little piece of candy. What’s your name?”

“Do you breathe?” Peter mutters.

“Haha! Unfortunately!”

“It’s impolite to ask someone’s name without giving your own.” Peter finally says, hold tightening on the book in his arms like it’ll somehow protect him. “Didn’t anyone in that classy family of yours teach you manners?”

The stranger grins, all teeth and hint of intrigue, “Baby’s got bite. I’m Wade Wilson, sweet stuff.”

“Peter Parker,” he relents. “...so…”

Wade raises an eyebrow, still grinning and looking disgustingly put together, like a model at a Halloween photo shoot. “So, what? Got a question? Need help finding your parents? Someone smellin’ like you shouldn’t be wandering alone.” He pauses, “Well, unless you know kung-fu. Do ya know kung-fu, Petey Pie?”

Peter scowls, irritation simmering in whiskey eyes. He gives up on attempting to be polite. “I’m not wandering alone, and it’s a _question_. I want to know what species you are, I’ve never seen someone with a soul like yours.”

Wade tilts his head side to side, unsettling eyes pinned to Peter’s face. When he smiles it reminds Peter of a shark. “Hmm, I’ll tell ya, but only ‘cause you’re a curious little kiddy who doesn’t seem to know any better.”

Peter tenses, wondering if the sharp edge in the man’s voice had been there before.

“I’m what the world calls an _unhappy accident,_ my young friend! When a mommy and daddy love each other very much-- no, wait, wrong backstory. Ahem. I was just a wee babe, born in the sweet caress of shit’s creek… sorry, language! As I was saying, the world welcomed me with open arms, quite literally, because I fell right through ‘em and hit the dirt. You’d think someone would’a taught the world how to hold a baby, ‘cause dropping kids is fucked.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Peter interrupts, somehow both weirded out and darkly amused.

Wade presses a finger to Peter’s mouth, his claw-like fingernail poking Peter’s nose. “Hush, child, I’m monologuing.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter knocks the hand away and gives the man a scowl that rivals his youngest brother’s.

“Back to me,” Wade says, “Before I was so _rudely_ interrupted — I’m a chimera. Not to be confused with those creepy, necromancer playthings — though Frankenstein’s monster has nothin’ on me, I’m an _all natural_ born ‘n bred chimera, babycakes!”

“...what does that mean?” Peter asks, because he’s heard the word _chimera_ before, but he’s learning that many ‘monsters’ known in the human world don’t exactly match reality. 

“It meeeeans,” Wade drawls, hands clapping excitedly together even as his voice takes on a razor-sharp edge. “That you should be very, very careful and stay very, very far away.”

“Are you threatening me?” Peter squints, refusing to let the flash of fear in his chest show on his face.

In an instant, the Chimera does a complete 180, his voice turning saccharine, “Oh, never! I don’t threaten kids, it’s against my very limited morals.”

Peter doesn’t trust him for an instant, but one glance back at his group has him exhaling out a little bit of the tension gathering in his shoulders. Bucky’s eyes are on him, head tilted and mouth set into a hard line. Peter shakes his head, gently, and the man doesn’t move even though Peter knows he wants to.

“That your guard dog?” Wade asks, following Peter’s gaze and waving obnoxiously at Bucky. The man only scowls in response. “Oops, more like _Count Guardula._ Not very friendly.”

“He’s my friend.” Peter corrects, “And he’s just lookin’ out for me. Now, if you aren’t threatening me, will you answer my question? Or is it too personal?”

Eerie blue gaze settles on Peter, the Chimera silent for a long second before breaking into another dangerous grin. “A Chimera is an impossible mutt, sugar baby. It means mommy and daddy were both mixed, and made the very, very bad decision to bring me into the world instead of aborting me like you’re supposed to.”

Peter’s mouth feels dry. His fingers begin to tingle with how tightly he’s grasping the book in his arms. It’s the first thing this man has said that sounds serious. He realizes he doesn’t know what he’s doing, talking to this man. He doesn’t know anything about this world yet, he’s barely scratched the surface. The words Wade speaks sound like a completely different language. Mixed? Aborting children _because you’re supposed to?_

“We’re going.” Bucky’s hand is on his shoulder, grounding. He stares at Wade with something that Peter can’t identify, but he’s not sure it’s anything good. 

“So soon?” Wade says, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Bucky. The two of them stare each other down for a long moment and the air becomes suffocating. 

(Peter remembers he’s very, very human. Just fragile flesh and paper mache bones.)

Then it breaks, and Wade smiles down at Peter. “See ya around, sugar baby.”

Peter isn’t able to spit out a reply fast enough, because the instant he blinks, the Chimera is gone. “Wha--”

“You attract all manner of crazy, don’t you?” Bucky mutters, looking down at Peter with fond exasperation, brow still tense. 

Peter laughs, “Lucky me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, and Peter feels like there’s a thunderstorm in his chest when he looks at the vampire, “Lucky you, candy boy.”

Bucky takes the book from his hands. Before Peter can say anything, the vampire is already handing both it and money over to Rogue. He’d almost forgotten he’d even been holding it, and now he’s a little embarrassed at how transparent his desires are.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking the book when Rogue offers it back.

Bucky shrugs and looks away, gesturing to a paper bag on the counter. “Don’t mention it. And take your sandwich.”

Peter takes the bag, feeling heat through the thin covering. “It’s a _panini._ ”

“Shut up.” Bucky grabs his shoulder and pulls him out of the shop. 

“Uhm….What did that guy mean, though,” Peter can’t help but ask as they return to the others. “About being mixed?”

“It means his parents were each half something, half something else.”

“Ok,” Peter hums, “And what does _that_ mean?”

“We told you before that humans and vampires can have kids, and it’s the same for most other species. Not every species is compatible enough to produce offspring, but the ones that are still don’t usually have them. The most common mixed species are Cambion, Half-Moons and Dhamphirs. All of them are half-human, the other half being demon, werewolf and vampire, respectively. Any other combination has only ever happened once or twice, if at all. Those don’t even get the pleasure of havin’ a species name, on account of how rare they are.” Bucky explains, trailing behind Steve, Ben and Kaine, who are talking amongst themselves, unaware of the conversation taking place just a few feet behind them.

They wander along the streets, continuing on towards the Heart. Peter finally pulls his panini out of the bag, his new book tucked under one arm. It smells delicious, and the inside of the bag is shiny with oil and grease from melted cheese. The first bite is heaven. “You’ve only mentioned half-human species.” He says through a mouthful of hot panini.

“Yeah…” Bucky sighs, ignoring Peter’s bad manners, “Because those are the most common. Not very many supernatural species can… for lack of a better term, _breed_ outside of their own. The ones that can, rarely do. It’s dangerous to conceive a child between two different ones. Most mothers miscarry, or the kids die early in childhood, too sickly to survive. There’s just no telling how the genetics will collide… sometimes it works, and the kid is stable. Most times it doesn’t. Outside of a person’s own species, humans seem to be the most compatible; which is why so many half-humans have survived birth — enough to create new species, like Dhamphirs and Cambion.”

“Wow.” Genetics has actually been a recent area of interest for Peter. With the introduction to all _this?_ Now he’s just itching to learn more. “Is… Is that why Wade said that? About…”

“Abortion?” The dark-haired vampire finishes, giving Peter a knowing look. “Yeah. If you think full-blooded combos already have a low survival rate, a mixed species and another mixed species? The odds are astronomical. Especially with the scent I was getting off of him.”

Peter stares up at Bucky with wide, eager eyes. “What scent? Could you tell what kind of mix he was?”

Bucky’s nose crinkles when he’s trying not to smile. Peter knows this like he knows how the man has a fondness for mint leaves and swing music. That very expression passes quickly across the vampire’s face, but it’s slow enough for Peter to catch. Maybe he was looking for it.

“He was right to call himself a Chimera,” Is what the man finally says, “It was a little hard to distinguish his scent because of it, but he smelled of wolf and demon, at least. I wouldn’t be hard-pressed to include vampire, either. It’s probably why he even considers _himself_ impossible. Vampires and werewolves aren’t compatible, they can’t have kids.”

“But a half-vampire and a half-werewolf?” Peter hedges.

Bucky shrugs, flashing his own set of too-sharp teeth. “Guess it depends on what the other halves were. I’m no genetics expert.”

“That’s incredible.” Peter breathes, dazedly looking forward but not really _seeing_. He vaguely understands that he’s staring at Steve’s back. He’s bursting with ideas now, with theories and questions and a million, billions desires and a driving need to search for answers. Some things may never be understood, he knows that. Maybe he’s still working on _accepting_ it, but he’s at least aware of the fact. This, on the other hand? It’s just plain science. Something he can actually figure out and learn and study and _control_. 

(Please, just let him have order _once_.)

The vampire beside him is quiet. When he speaks, there’s something like nostalgia in his voice, and a painful sort of care in the way he steers Peter out of the way of an oncoming pedestrian that looks more scales than skin. “Yeah, it is.”

Then, all at once, his happy mood shatters.

Peter rewinds their conversation, thinking through exactly what Bucky had said, word for word. He must have been wrong — _he must have misheard._ He stops walking, feeling the color drain from his face. “You...did you say Demon?”

The vampire makes it a few steps more before realizing Peter has stopped, turning on his heels to look back. Any softness has faded from his face, now all that remains is faint confusion and the usual stoicism. “...I did.”

Peter thinks of ink and shadow, of glass biting into the fleshy parts of his feet and the way his mother had looked, colorless and limp. A distant memory that haunts his nightmares, twisted with age but never fully forgotten. The image of a Demon forced from his mother’s body haunts his every step, he _relishes_ in the faint recall of its screams as he’d burned it from her. The faint shadow of horns and sharp teeth fading away, to dust or back to hell, he hadn’t cared.

“Peter.”

He looks up at Bucky and meets those azure cat-eyes, unsure of what expression settles across his face. From the twist of Bucky’s mouth, it’s nothing good.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, in a voice more gentle than Peter has ever heard. 

He swipes a hand across his eyes and finds himself scowling, falling back on his anger in response to the overwhelming swell of emotion bombarding his heart. “I don’t understand.” He manages to bite out, because it’s not Bucky he’s mad at. It’s not. “His soul wasn’t black.”

“They aren’t supposed to be.” 

Peter blinks at that, thick lashes sticking together wetly. “...What do you mean?”

Bucky glances over his shoulder, and Peter follows his gaze to meet Steve’s, who appears concerned. His two brothers are suitably distracted by another pretty cafe, the storefront dripping in ivy and hanging flowers that seem to dance and avoid their careful fingers. 

“Miguel once told us a bit about the colors you saw. Demons aren’t like the creatures you humans see in the Bible and media… well, not all of them. _Demon_ is just the name of their species, and their souls are….bright red.” Bucky muses, eyes looking off in the distance, a millions miles away in a memory that Peter doesn’t yet recall. “Bright red and dark red, with yellow starbursts. You called it beautiful. Like a sunrise.”

“You mean Miguel.” Peter whispers. “Miguel called it beautiful.”

“Peter,” Bucky says, soft and familiar, “You _are_ Miguel, and Miguel is _you,_ just like every life you lived before. It doesn’t make you any less _Peter_. It’s what _makes_ you Peter.”

Peter swipes his sleeve across his nose and sniffs loudly, pretending he can’t feel the tips of his ears burn hot. He’d had a hard time thinking about it, the _different lives_ thing. Try as he might, separating them felt weird. And maybe it was. Because maybe it’s exactly like Bucky said. In every life, in every time, it was always _him_. (Or her, can’t forget that.)

“A demon killed my parents.” He says, focusing on the confusion in his gut rather than the soft and fuzzy feelings. “It was black as night. I thought that’s just how demons _were_.”

He’d told Bucky and Steve that his parents were dead the first time they met at the vampires’ home, but he’d neglected to tell them _how._ Maybe if he had, this whole thing could have been explained earlier, and Peter wouldn’t be suffering a mental breakdown in the middle of a supernatural marketplace, his panini growing cold in his hand.

If the new information is shocking, Bucky hides it well. There’s a grimace on his lips and a sorrow that almost feels like pity in the rest of his face — but Peter realizes it’s sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that, Pete. But you have to know that not all demons are like that. We’ve passed quite a few on the street today already. They’re just people. But…” His brow hangs heavy, jaw stern, “Demons are able to exist between planes, so they frequently associate with ghosts. This makes them… susceptible.”

“Like a poltergeist.” Peter murmurs, hushed and understanding. “They can become corrupted.”

“Yes.” The vampire confirms. “There are regulations in place to prevent that from occurring as much as possible, but keeping track of everyone is difficult and there are… factions that thrive off of creating despair. Normal Demons aren’t very fond of those types, they call them _Hellspawn_.”

“A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“In this world it’s a bit like calling someone a shithead.”

Peter can’t stop the chuckle that bubbles past his lips. “Why not just call them a shithead?”

Bucky scoffs and ruffles Peter’s hair, “I don’t pretend to understand what goes on in a demon’s head, take up your insult complaint with them.”

“I’m just sayin—”

“Shut up, you little Hellspawn. Eat your panini.”


	15. plant matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha,,,, i have no excuses.... it's been like 7 months but im BACK! i got super sucked into other fandoms, and im also in my senior year so i had a lot of stuff piling up. i haven't abandoned this fic tho, and will continue to keep working on it until it's done, no matter how long it takes. i've dedicated too much time to worldbuilding lol

_ "This is my confession. As dark as I am, I will always find enough light to adore you to pieces, with all of my pieces." _

— Johnny Nguyen

* * *

Bruce’s store,  _ Gamma, _ is tucked between two larger, more polished looking buildings made with what looks like Grecian marble and sandalwood. His, in contrast, is a combination of dark and ash wood, the door painted green with a window of stained glass in the middle. It’s two stories, and a single bay window on the lower floor to the left of the door reveals a dim interior. Like most other buildings, there’s ivy crawling up the walls and pots of flowers spilling out by the entrance and window. When they enter a bell chimes above their heads.

The inside is lit by both light streaming in from the bay window and candles that burn with a flame of pure white, thick wax pooling in dishes. The floor is dark wood and a patchwork of different rugs thrown over each other, creating a few bumps and snags that Peter has to be mindful of, lest he trip and embarrass himself. It looks like a very old Victorian library, with rows of towering shelves packed with books and bottles, plants and the odd, obscure item. Dried herbs hang from various notches in the ceiling, and there’s runes carved into every bookcase and shelf. Now  _ this _ is a witch’s house if Peter ever saw one. (Except it was a shop. Bruce’s shop. And so, so fascinating.)

He skirts around a basket of what looks like animal bones as Steve calls out for the Marked man.

“Bruce? You in?”

There’s a thump from a few rows over and after a second a familiar mousy man reveals himself, patting dust from his shirt. Bruce smiles, looking tired but happy to see them. His eyes trail over their group. “Oh, you’re all here… with some new faces. Er, well. Same faces, different… people.”

“I’m Ben.” Peter’s twin smiles widely, waving. “I hear you’re somethin’ of a doctor!”

“That’s what they call me.” Bruce replies, then looks at them a little more intensely. After a moment he nods in Peter’s direction. “I see why you brought them along.”

Peter shrugs, “Why wouldn’t I?”

Kaine squints at Bruce, “Whataya mean by that?”

Bruce pushes up his glasses, “Well, I can measure the power of a soul. Subsequently, a strong soul attracts more...dangerous adversaries who seek that power for their own gain. Peter’s soul is the strongest I’ve ever known, but you two,” he flickers his gaze between Ben and Kaine, “Are nothing to sniff at either. You’d both benefit from a little protection.”

“Why help us at all?” Kaine asks, still suspicious.

“Kaine!” Peter exclaims, shocked at his brother’s boldness—and yet not at the same time. What did it matter  _ why _ Bruce helped them? They clearly needed it!

“No, no,” Bruce interrupts whatever argument may be brewing, “Being wary is rather smart around here. Especially when you’re new to this world, two vampire guardians or no. I can’t give you much aside from my word, so I suppose you’ll have to trust that I don’t wish to harm you. Which I don’t. Offering people protection is my job.”

“Dr. Banner is the go-to for protective wards, healing elixirs and curse-breakers.” Steve says, wandering down one of the aisles. “Feel free to look around, boys.”

Ben sticks by Bruce, peering up at the man behind thick lenses. “What’ve you got for people like me?”

Bruce raises a brow, “Depends on what kind of ‘people’ you are.”

“Precognitive. I dream of the future… or possible futures.”

Pursing his lips, Bruce hesitantly replies with, “Well, I guess  _ now _ it depends on what you want to do with that Sixth Sense. Are you looking to train it? Block the visions?”

Peter wanders away, curious about where the conversation may lead, but content to know he can always ask Ben about it later. He’d rather get started on exploring this place. Shoving the now empty panini bag in his jacket pocket, Peter thoroughly wipes his slightly greasy fingers on his pants. The book he picked up in the other store is a bit too big to stuff in any of his pockets, so he settles on keeping it tucked under one arm. 

When he’d first met Bruce, the man had mentioned something about a book. A book that apparently one of Peter’s past selves had written, which affected the current understanding of human souls and Sixth Senses across the entirety of the Supernatural society. So. Not daunting in the slightest. He can only hope he’ll end up being  _ half _ as successful as her. (Because it is a her, that past self of his.)

If he can’t locate the book just by wandering, he’ll ask the man about it. For now, he’s content to wander, soaking in the heavy scent of polished wood and old paper, fresh dirt and grass. He brushes his fingers against a pack of hanging lavender sprigs.

Betty would love this.

He ignores that thought immediately. He already feels guilty enough, no need to ruin the experience. The columns go far past his head, over his reach even when he stands on his tip toes. There doesn’t seem to be a stool nearby, so he’ll have to get Steve or Bucky to take a look. Or just wait until he’s taller. Ugh. Peter runs a finger down the spines of the books he  _ can  _ reach. Most are old, leathery things with no name visible on the spine, forcing him to pull them from the shelf to glimpse the titles. Half the ones he looks at aren’t labeled in english. One book feels awfully familiar. It’s a little botanical guide, thin and smaller than the other books surrounding it.  _ Do’s & Don’ts of Preternatural Gardening. _

Peter has never thought about plants. Er, well, in a gardening sense. He certainly doesn’t have the kind of attention span that would allow any plant in his possession to actively flourish. He’d probably kill a cactus. But when he looks at this book, he gets the oddest sense of deja-vu, like he’s held it in his hands before.

_ Or poured over it for hours; dirt under his fingernails, dog-eared pages, pencil marks in the margins, snip snip snip of scissors, wild flowers tamed under careful pruning. The gentle vibration of a hum in her chest, grass stains on her dress, a stem tucked behind her ear, petals brushing her temple. Her daughter’s laughter in the air, a handful of daisies, wisps of strawberry-blonde hair spilling across her shoulders, the earth sings. _

Peter gasps sharply and drops the book, the sound of it thumping against the ground muffled by the carpet. A headache blossoms behind his eyes and he presses a hand to his temple. It fades slowly. Something sharp and melancholy sits heavy in his chest. He wipes his hands on his pants once more, thoughtlessly, like there’s dirt in the creases of his fingers. He sighs and picks up the book. Whoever that was… she had this book. Was she the one who wrote the book about Sixth Senses? Or is this a whole new person?

Someone who loved gardening. Who had a daughter.

He stares down at the book, the cover seared behind his eyelids. In all his desire to  _ remember, _ he’d never really thought on whether he  _ should. _ Sure, he’d briefly felt uncomfortable upon thinking of the idea of having siblings in past lives… family that would have died. But children?

A child. Maybe more than one. Maybe many, many children across many lives. The book shakes in his hand. It takes him a moment to realize that  _ he’s _ the one shaking, limbs trembling like it’s mid-winter and he’s out in his shorts. Being basically a child himself, he’d never once given thought to procreating. Having a kid at his age? Unthinkable. Not even on his radar. This entire concept has him completely caught off guard, terrified and — yearning. A part of him yearns.

Softens.

_ What was her name? _ His daughter. Her daughter. Their daughter. 

It seems even more important than what the name of that version of him was. If this odd, devastating feeling is what it’s like to have children, he doesn’t know if he ever wants them.

_ Because that’s just it, isn’t it? _

He’s just one in a line of reincarnations. He’ll have to deal with lifetimes of horror and tragedy if he gets all those memories back, and he’ll be responsible for the memories of his  _ current life _ when they’re passed on to the next. 

Peter will die one day, and nothing will stop the next... _ him _ from being born. (Or her.) He thinks very vividly of the way he’d felt when his parents had died. He thinks of the aching, splintering feeling in his chest when he considers the daughter he barely remembers. Is this his life now? Worried and hurting? Wondering if what he does now will negatively affect the next reincarnation? Will they have to remember Peter’s family, and mourn them all when those memories hit?

(If those memories hit.)

A part of him wonders what the point of it is. It feels less exciting, all of a sudden. He’s grateful for Bucky and Steve and finds comfort in the feelings they give him. But the rest of it? Maybe not remembering more wouldn’t be so bad. It’s conflicting. Wanting to know, but also not wanting to hurt. Would it be worth it?

“Peter? Are you alright?” A voice asks, soft as to not draw attention to the others meandering about the store.

He looks up at Steve, whose hulking frame blocks Peter’s view of the aisle—or maybe blocks everything from seeing him. “What?”

“You’re crying…” The vampire replies, his strong jaw tense but his cat-eyed gaze soft.

Peter blinks, then registers the feeling of tears sliding down his cheeks and the taste of salt at his lips. He hadn’t even realized his gaze had gone blurry. Peter shoves  _ Do’s & Don’ts of Preternatural Gardening _ under his arm, next to  _ The Official Bestiary of the Modern Century. _ With his free hand, he pushes up under his glasses and wipes at his wet eyes. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I don’t know… I mean, I remembered something. Not Miguel. Someone else.”

The worried look doesn’t leave Steve’s face, but his shoulders lose a bit of their tension. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It wasn’t bad.” And it wasn’t, it was only pleasant memories. “It’s just… apparently I had a daughter once.” He takes a deep breath and it only shakes once. “You don’t look too surprised.”

“Miguel didn’t give us too many details about the people you were before.” Steve begins, slowly and carefully, like he’s only letting the words in his mind leave his tongue after heavy consideration. “But he mentioned children. Relationships. You’ve lived lifetimes, and that comes with people attached. He didn’t like to talk about it, and that’s understandable.”

“But how’d he deal with it?” Peter whispers, feeling lost.

Steve puts his hands on his hips and lets out a deep breath, “By living, I suppose. All those people, they’re _ you _ . That’s true, but each life is your own. What you do with it should be completely up to the person you are now…. Miguel told me once that it wasn’t like you were all the same; you all had different personalities, different experiences, different  _ lives. _ You can remember who you were, Peter, but don’t get stuck in another life. Focus on this one.”

“I don’t know if it’s that easy.” Peter says.

Steve offers a tentative smile, “I don’t think it is, either. But whatever you need… we’re here. You’re not alone.”

Peter gets a flash then, another memory — of a time when Steve’s hair was a little shorter and he’d traded well-worn button-ups for army greens. When his shoulder had brushed Miguel’s as they peered across a war-torn field and dreamed aloud of future plans.

“I know,” he says, and his next words are an echo. “You’d follow me across a million lifetimes, dummy.”

Steve grins the like sun, flashing teeth as his eyes crease and the lines of his face soften. “Who else would put up with you?”

* * *

He ends up asking Bruce about the book. It’s called  _ Life and Times of Human Capability  _ by Cassandra Webb. When he runs his finger across her name, he doesn’t get the same feeling he did with the other book. It’s a different woman, he can tell. 

What he does get is… darkness. But darkness is not  _ absence,  _ not  _ nothing _ — he hears things, laughter and hushed voices, feels the phantom sensation of hands across his own. Peter furrows his brow.  _ Cassandra Webb was blind. _

It makes the brief flashes he gets a little disconcerting, and none of it is particularly relevant or substantial, but at least he knows for sure that he used to be her. The thought of once being a woman is not as odd as Peter would have guessed. It just  _ is. _

He supposes he’s fine with that.

They haven’t told Bruce about the reincarnation thing, so they can’t exactly ask the man to take the book. It’s not on sale for a reason, apparently. The original copies are extremely rare to find and Bruce hoards his carefully, only allowing those who ask for it to read it. It isn’t allowed out of the store unless Bruce is the one handling it. Peter doesn’t mind so much, after the initial irritation. It does give him an excuse to keep coming back, even he’d been planning to anyway. 

He cracks open the book and gets to reading what he can while his brothers are still enamoured with the store. They won’t stay for too much longer, it’s already been a few hours and they should probably start heading home soon if they want to make it back before curfew. The pages are slightly yellowed but still in good condition, the tinted parchment preserved with the utmost care. (And spells, apparently. Because  _ witches exist.) _

There is nothing in his initial skimming to suggest Cassandra could see souls. Well, she was blind, so she probably didn’t  _ see  _ — er, anyway. There’s nothing about actual souls relating to people, just an outline of what a Sixth Sense is and the different classifications it can manifest as. There’s even a chapter about  _ Gifts _ bestowed by ‘Angels’, and the differences in ability. 

Most  _ Gifts _ manifested as something more of the physical manner, like enhanced strength, speed, senses, or, in Kaine’s case, the ability to  _ touch a ghost. _ With his hands. There are those with psychokinesis abilities that can manipulate spiritual energy enough to  _ fling _ ghosts away, but that isn’t physical. It’s all mental. 

A  _ Sixth Sense _ is always just that: another inborn human sensory ability.  _ Gifts _ are enhancements. Kaine is enhanced. Actually, now that Peter thinks about it, his brother has always been rather athletic, far more than Peter or Ben. Stronger, too. Faster. Is that a result of his _ Gift _ and not a lucky quirk of genetics?

“Peter, we’re going!” Ben calls.

He shuts the book reluctantly. “Ok, coming!”

The walk back is a little quieter, the vampires leaving the three kids to sort through their thoughts of the day. Peter is already itching to get his hands back on the book his past self had written. Though he is a little disappointed that there wasn’t any information about souls — which must mean that she kept that little ability under wraps. Makes sense, seeing as Bruce had even told Peter that he’d never heard of someone who could see the visible colors of a soul. If all his predecessors had done that, maybe Peter really  _ should _ have kept it a secret. For what reason, he isn’t sure of yet. It’s just another ability, after all. What could possibly make him so different? 

Aside from the reincarnation.

_ Hm. _

When they get home, Peter is two books heavier. He’d gotten the little gardening book on a whim, unsure if he’ll ever really use it but unwilling to part from the heavy sense of nostalgia it carries. Having Bucky and Steve pay for it still bothered him, but he plans on paying them back eventually, whether they want it or not. 

(The food, however, was a different story.  _ That _ he had no problem being a mooch about. He’s a growing boy, after all.)

* * *

_ MARCH, 2016. _

Peter wakes to a crick in his neck and the sound of quiet voices. His eyes feel weighed down by a thousand pounds, and a headache throbs angrily behind them. These days, this is a typical morning for him. He doesn’t sleep well. Hard to fall, easy to wake. Unrestful. 

It must be early still, with how quiet the other two are attempting to be.

He sits up, face partially numb with sleep. There’s probably a pattern imprinted in his skin from the pillow, red creases like angry cracks. The baby blue blanket slips down to his lap, cartoon puppies warped by the folds.

“Good morning.” Gwen greets, hovering by the couch. She must have been terribly bored last night while they slept. 

He grunts in reply, brain still booting up.

“You look like shit.” Mary Jane says bluntly. Her hair looks way too put together for someone who slept like a rock on a basement couch—even if that basement is incredibly furnished. 

Her and Harry stand by the stairs, both looking as if they’ve been awake for at least a half hour. Harry’s even changed his clothes already, looking perfectly comfortable in a cleanly pressed green sweater and comfortable slacks. 

The other man frowns in concern. “You should try sleeping a bit more, Pete. It’s only 7am.”

“No,” he replies, voice like gravel. “I won’t be falling asleep again for a while.”

“If you say so,” his friend murmurs. “Anyway, the kids will be up soon so we’re going to get breakfast started.”

Peter nods, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The lights in the basement are still dim, but the throbbing is persistent.

“Come up when you can, you look like you need a gallon of coffee and some Vicodin.”

He rolls his eyes at Mary Jane, who masks any concern with harmless teasing. 

“Thanks.”

The two make their way up the stairs, but before he disappears completely, Harry turns to look over his shoulder and calls back down to Peter.

“We left Flash’s bag by the TV. I doubt he’ll be up anytime soon, but feel free to check on him.”

Peter glances over to the innocuous duffle bag he’d overlooked last night. It’s set to the side of the TV, slightly out of casual vision. There’s a folded wheelchair behind it. Blanket in hand, he shoves himself up to his feet. 

“Ugh,” he groans as his knees pop. After a few stretches, he sluggishly meanders over to the items. The borrowed blanket is tossed onto the couch.

It’s been a while. Not long enough for him to forget everything, but enough that he has to brace himself for what he’ll see when he opens that reinforced door. Peter doesn’t like seeing people in pain—but it’s monumentally worse when it’s someone he cares about. 

Werewolves don’t have it easy, sure. But there’s a distinct difference between what a Natural and Turned Were go through. Those who are born Werewolves have biology on their side, their bodies are compatible with the changes—their bodies are  _ made _ for it. Werewolves like Flash, who were turned by accident, of their own volition, or against their will....well. They generally have human bodies. Human bodies that aren’t meant to undertake the changes brought about every full moon. For Turned Werewolves, lycanthropy is an affliction. A strain upon their bodies and minds, an incurable infection that ravages them every second of every day. 

He remembers the first time he’d witnessed Flash during a full moon. He remembers the aftermath, the pain and weakness—nightmare fuel for Peter, who’d never seen Flash as someone who could crumble to their knees so easily. The other man had always seemed so strong. Impenetrable. Better than Peter in every physical sense.

Peter swallows around his dry throat and ignores Gwen’s strained, sympathetic look. He tries not to wonder if being forced to see Flash like this hurts her even more than it does him, but his mind is a poison pit for darkness and self-sabotage. 

Slinging the bag over his shoulder and tucking the folded wheelchair under his arm, Peter trudges back over to the door that cages Flash in an unbreakable room. The digital interface by the sealed door blinks awake when he hovers his hand over it. He enters the password, confident it’s yet to be changed. 

_ FurryThompson. _

The screen flashes green in acceptance and the door beeps. Whirs and heavy thunks ring out in the silence as it begins unlocking. After almost a minute, the door lets out a final  _ click  _ and swings open just a crack. Peter grips the near-seamless edge and pulls it open all the way. 

Inside is the familiar sight of steel and sheer concrete, a box that really does resemble a prison. It’s shitty, but it’s preferable to the carnage Flash could possibly unleash if he was left alone. Another issue for Turned Werewolves—they struggle with heavily decreased human facilities during the full moon, whereas Natural Werewolves can almost always wrangle some sense of control.

Peter thinks it’s supremely unfair of biology.

(It’s unfair to Flash, who never asked to be a Werewolf to begin with.)

Flash is pressed against the far wall, entirely naked and far too pale. His frame is wracked with shivers, and something that smells like vomit is smeared across the floor a few paces away. Peter does his best to ignore that, even if the scent almost makes him gag. The blond is covered in a visible layer of sweat, his cheeks fever red. In a few hours he’ll settle and recover as his healing factor kicks in. Usually he sleeps for hours and wakes feeling pretty okay, if a little worn out. 

Peter squats down and presses a hand to Flash’s sweaty forehead, grimacing at the heat radiating from his friend. Wolves usually run pretty high, but this is almost painful to the touch. He puts the wheelchair beside him and slips the bag off his shoulder with a sigh. Unzipping the bag reveals the usual items: a pain relieving potion from Bruce, a change of clothes, soap and shampoo, a towel, and Flash’s dog tags.

He runs his fingers over the tags for a moment, feeling the bumps and grooves of the lettering. His caramel eyes flash to the stumps Flash’s thighs taper into. 

The blond looks completely conked out, almost comatose. This full moon must have been especially hard on him, as it was the first in a while that he spent back here, alone in a cell. With Logan and the others it was easier. Better for his health or something. Either way, the other man really looked like shit this time around. Perhaps even worse than usual.

Peter sighs.

“Dammit. The things you make me do.”

A beep sounds. From the far left corner of the room, a steel panel in the ceiling rumbles and moves, pressing up and shifting away. A showerhead lowers. A steel tile in the floor shifts down and slips to the side, revealing a drain. 

Harry really spared no expense. 

If Peter had money, he’d do the same.

(Is it guilt he feels? Always. It’s rarely anything else. It’s what he’s most intimately familiar with.)

He glances back to the doorway, where Gwen stands, her hand out and hovering to the side. She offers him a soft smile, blue eyes gleaming like gemstones. With what little energy she had for today, she’d used to control the interface and initiate the shower system.

After a second, the water starts. Within moments, steam rises from the spray. 

“Thanks.” he says.

She knows him too well.

(As if he was just going to leave Flash here in his own sweat and vomit for hours. Damn Harry and MJ, they knew it too.)

“This is probably payback for not contacting you when you moved away.” He starts talking as if the other man can hear him, shedding his own clothes. “They’re making me look after you on my own. You’re almost twice my size man, with what strength do they expect me to move you around with?”

Gwen turns her back to them to respect their privacy, as far away as she can get. He barely spares her a glance, accustomed to her constant presence.

Maybe he’d feel weird about showering with one of his best friends while completely nude—but he’s been doing this for years and it’s not worth wasting any thoughts on. Wearing clothes means he’ll inevitably get them wet. Also, Flash is usually entirely unconscious or in enough pain that he can barely move. 

Peter’s not a guy that’s good at verbally expressing his affection, but he loves Flash.

In a completely platonic way.

(Thank god, because Flash is as straight as a board.)

He’s not going to leave one of his closest friends to suffer because of something like nudity. At this point it’s  _ ignorable. _ They’ve been through way too much! The supernatural, Flash’s army stint and subsequent double above-the-knee amputation, his following alcohol addiction, and even the shit stain the blond calls a father. 

Flash is basically on the level of Ben and Kaine at this point—and well, maybe that scares Peter.

Scares him enough to treat Flash like his other brothers and ignore them while he tries to piece himself back together. Flash has never been one for emotional exclamations either—not like Harry, who refuses to let Peter try and slip out of his life. 

It’s funny how huge his family has gotten.

Peter showers Flash with practiced, mechanical movements. The soap smells like the faintest hints of lemon, the shampoo like sandalwood. Flash’s shivers cease after a few minutes under the warm spray, furrowed brow relaxing in relief. 

There aren’t any new scars on his skin. Peter’s done this enough to be intimately familiar with Flash’s body in the least sexual way. The blond really hasn’t changed at all, has he? Maybe that’s why he came back. New York is inescapable. It calls them all home, back to its strangling clutches. 

He washes himself while he’s at it, feeling a little grimy from sleeping on the floor. The suds swirl around the drain, white and foamy and smelling like lemon candy. 

* * *

Flash is still dead to the world by the time Peter has them both clean, dried and dressed. He himself is more awake than he was earlier, and his headache has faded to manageable levels.

“It’s almost 8.” Gwen says, not bothering to keep her voice down. It’s not as if Flash can hear her anyway. She looks excited.

Peter huffs in exertion, finally getting Flash—200lbs of muscle—into the wheelchair. His arms cry out in relief. “Normie and Stanley should be awake by now, huh?”

He hasn’t seen the little gremlins in a while. If it weren’t for Harry constantly inserting himself in Peter’s life, he’s sure the two young boys would have forgotten who he is entirely—the way children are apt to do.

“We haven’t seen them in a while,” Gwen speaks his thoughts for him. “Maybe they really  _ have _ forgotten your face by now.”

He makes a face in her direction. “Stop reading my mind.”

“Stop being so easy to read.” She shoots back, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Peter sticks his tongue out at her in a completely mature fashion. He wheels Flash over to the exit, the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. With a swipe of his hand over the interface by  _ that _ door, the stairs turn in like shutters, creating a slope. This addition is slightly newer, but still a fews years old. 

(Harry really is amazing.)

When they reach the first floor and exit through the secret bookcase, Peter can faintly pick up voices from a few rooms over. It must be the boys, because only they could be so loud this early in the morning. He tightens his grip on the wheelchair handles. For a moment he debates just going in—but then he glances down at Flash, who is slumped like a corpse, his weight straining the little folding wheelchair.

“Let’s just get him up to the guest room, then we’ll pop in and see them.” He whispers to Gwen, not wanting to attract the boys’ attention. If they catch him here, they’ll never let him go. And possibly wake up Flash, who really needs rest and recuperation for a few more hours.

Peter tries his best to quietly make his way to the elevator—because yes, there’s an elevator just across the hall, installed to help Flash get around whenever he’s over. Harry had it built after overhearing Flash go on a very passionate tirade about the lack of wheelchair accessible buildings in New York.

Peter’s first apartment had been like that. No elevator to speak of, just a stairwell that always smelled like moldy spaghetti-o’s.

Gwen looks longingly in the direction of the kitchen and muffled voices as the elevator doors close.

Another pang of guilt hits him. It’s almost agonizing; like trying to move with a burn wound. It makes him sick to his stomach and it’s just getting worse every day. Gwen only has him. She sits alone when he sleeps and can only talk to small children, and Peter doesn’t make a habit of surrounding himself with kids so those interactions are few and far between.

There’s Matt, however.

Matt, who can sense and hear spirits, who knows when a person before him is living or dead despite being blind. Who talks to Gwen and brings her to life in a way that Peter is struggling to do as the time passes.

(—As they fall into routine and Gwen grows dimmer by the day, not in appearance, but in personality. She’s already dead, but the glimmer of life in her eyes is dying too.)

Matt, with his coppery red hair and smeared scarlet Marks, unseeing eyes like chips of ice, like the brightest blue Peter has ever seen in his life. He always smells of warmth and spice, petrichor and smoked wood. He smiles like the devil, straight teeth and dimples pulling at stubble-lined cheeks. Stupidly full scarlet lips and knuckles that always look bruised to hell, a man familiar with blood, who looks good when he bleeds—and isn’t that all manner of terrible and unfair?

Peter isn’t allowed to think about that, though. Not about a friend, not about a man of God or whatever, and certainly not while Gwen hangs over him. An unwilling prisoner to his powers, powers he hasn’t even entirely figured out himself.

(It doesn’t matter that Matt is a man, no. That hasn’t mattered in years. It matters because Peter hasn’t moved on. Doesn’t know how to, doesn’t know if he wants to.)

He’s strangling himself with a rope he weaved himself.

The elevator opens. 

Peter wheels Flash out and down an immaculately decorated hall. Liz’s touch is very obvious in the carefully designed interior and perfect blend of color. It’s funny to think that the teenage girl who used to date Flash is now married to Harry, two kids in, and an accomplished business woman.

This world has changed them all.

The wheelchair is silent over the spotless white carpet. It’s a dangerous choice when you have two young, messy boys. At the end of the hall is a guest room, decorated in soft greens. There’s a large bed against the opposite wall, the sheets off-white with silver patterning. The bedframe is dark brown, and all other furniture—dresser, end tables, coffee table—match perfectly. There’s a plush, pastel green couch and armchair set around a wrought-iron fireplace.

Peter struggles for a good few minutes to lift Flash from the wheelchair into the massive bed. He’s not any stronger now than he was earlier, unfortunately. 

“Maybe you should work—”

“Don’t.” He grumbles, definitely not pouting. “My muscles are perfectly fine, it’s him that needs to stop bulking up.”

Gwen purses her lips in amusement. “Okay, noodle arms.”

He gapes in exaggerated offense. “Did you really just say that? Did those words really leave your mouth? Damn, what is this, a high school locker room?”

“I bet they called you chicken noodle.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t have to when you respond like that.”

Peter rolls his eyes, tucking in Flash like some kind of nanny. The blond is still slumbering soundly, even after all the maneuvering. He looks better now though, the feverish look having faded into a healthier glow. 

He pulls out his phone and snaps a quick photo of sleeping beauty. 

**Peter: (image attached)** _where u at? He needs true loves kiss to wake u3u_

A response comes almost instantly, his phone vibrating in his hand.

**Logan:** _ fuck off _

**Logan:** _banner’s new shipment is due tues, be at the usual dropoff_

“Is that Logan?” Gwen asks, her voice close by his ear. He startles a bit, not even noticing that she got so close.

“Yeah. Just updating him. He acts like a porcupine but I know he cares.”

**Peter:** _foggy will be there_

Gwen hums. “So Matt tells you his plans.”

An uncomfortable prickling sensation spreads across his flesh like wildfire. He can’t swallow past the sudden stone in his throat. “It just came up in passing conversation. They’re having Indian food and playing pool at some old bar. I only know because they invited me.”

“I didn’t hear about that.”

It doesn’t sound like an accusation, but his paranoia and guilt make it feel that way. 

“Yeah, well...I wasn’t planning on going. So. Nothing to tell.”

**Logan:** _ not an issue _

**Logan:** _ it’s been months _

**Peter:** _ aw, i knew u missed me :)) _

He knows very well that Logan isn’t talking about his own personal feelings—though the grouchy man holds a bit of a soft spot for Peter when it comes down to it, even if he’ll never admit it. It’s that Peter hasn’t been around Flash—had barely been contacting him, had effectively tried to cut their relationship off at the neck when distance separated them.  _ It’s a coping mechanism, _ as his therapist would say. Abandonment issues are rooted deep in his psyche, to the point where he’ll destroy relationships so he doesn’t get hurt first.

**Logan:** _eat shit, you adhd menace_

 **Logan:** _i’m saying you’re part of flash’s pack whether you like it or not, so act like it_

 **Logan:** _or i’ll claw your car_

 **Peter:** _baby please, no sexting while gwen is here_

 **Logan:** _parker_

 **Peter:** _relaxxxx wolvie, i’ll be there_

He puts his phone back in his pocket, not expecting a reply after his confirmation. Logan is to the point like that, never asking for more than what he wants. Peter stretches his arms above his head and sighs when his back cracks. All that’s left is to put the pain-relieving potion on the bedside table and head down to see the boys.

“I think you should go.”

Peter stops.

Gwen isn’t looking at him, but rather at Flash and his faintly rising and falling chest. For a moment he can pretend he hasn’t heard anything at all, fingers curling around the potion as he plucks it out of the duffle bag. He looks away from her and places it where Flash can easily see it when he wakes up.

“Well I’m going now,” he finally says. “Gotta go with Flash to get the shipment.”

“I mean to hang out. You remember what that is?”

He exhales through his nose. “I can hang out with Harry...and Flash. Or even Johnny and the others.”

Gwen stares at him, her eyes piercing in a way they haven’t been in a long while. “Peter, I think you should expand your horizons a little bit. Visit Tony again. Make up with your brothers. Call Nat back. God, even let Wade drag you to another crappy drive in! ...If anything at all, Peter, spend some time with Matt. I know you want to.” She pauses for a long moment, enough for that pin-prick sensation to come over him again. “And he likes you.”

“I am incredibly likable.” He jokes dryly, trying his best to inject his usual smug humor.

Gwen narrows her eyes at him, hands on her hips. It’s her no-nonsense pose. “No, Peter, he  _ likes _ you.”

“Well that’s not very holy of him.”’

“Stop with the excuses.” She says, and her voice trembles a bit. “I’m the one who’s dead, Peter. Not you.”

His head fills with white noise. “I think we should see the boys now. It’s been awhile. Harry and MJ are probably wondering where we are.”

He moves before she can respond. He lies to himself.  _ I’m not running. _ Even though he is, and he can’t get out of that room fast enough. He’s even resorting to bringing up one of Gwen’s desires,  _ speaking with Normie and Stanley, _ to shut her up. He’s a goddamn piece of shit. He knows she wants what’s best for him, but he can’t stand it when she talks like that—when she talks about him moving on when she’s stuck in place. Forever observing. Trapped between life and death and withering away inside.

It makes him sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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